Becoming
by snarkypants
Summary: Hermione Weasley, a widowed mother of 13 year old twins, returns to Hogwarts to teach Arithmancy. She and Severus Snape begin a surprising friendship.
1. Chapter 1

**Becoming**

Chapter One

by snarkypants

"Hermione," Minerva said, coming into the hall to shake the other woman's hand warmly. "It's good to see you. How are you doing?"

"I'm well, Minerva," Hermione said. She looked well, or at least better than she had when McGonagall had last seen her. Of course, that had been just a week after Ron's death, when she brought the twins back to school to finish out the year. "Thank you for agreeing to meet me during your holiday, at your home no less."

Minerva waved her off with a dismissive gesture. "You are always welcome, child." She gestured towards a comfortable-looking armchair for her visitor, and Hermione sat.

"Would you care for tea?" Hermione nodded, and the headmistress summoned a teacart from the other side of the room, and began pouring.

"How have the children settled in at the Burrow?" she asked, handing Hermione a cup.

Hermione gave a cynical laugh. "They've gone from thinking it would be Christmas with Grandma every day to a more rational appreciation of what it means to live with their widowed grandmother--and their widowed mother, for that matter--in a very old house."

"Oh, dear."

"It's good for them. We spoilt them when we lived in Egypt. We had a cook and help around the house; everything was so inexpensive there." She stirred milk and sugar into her cup with a flick of her wand.

Minerva settled into the twin of Hermione's armchair, stirring her own tea. "Do have a biscuit, dear; I discovered them on holiday in Portugal, and they're delightful."

Hermione accepted a biscuit from the proffered tray. "Thank you. Almond?" She took a bite. "Mmm...Lovely."

Minerva nibbled at her biscuit, and sipped at her tea, waiting for Hermione to open the discussion; they made light conversation, touching on the Grangers' health and Harry and Ginny's most recent travels.

After her cup was empty, Hermione set it aside. "Is your offer of the Arithmancy position still standing?"

"Of course it is; I wasn't planning to pester you about it until August, so I'm glad you're ready to discuss it now." Her eyes glinted with humour over the top of her teacup.

"Either way, I didn't want to leave you in the lurch."

"My dear, I _live_ in the lurch; such is the nature of my position. But thank you anyway."

"I've decided to accept the offer, although I'm worried about Fabian and Blithe. I can't begin to imagine the pressure it will put them under."

"It wouldn't be easy for them to have you as a professor, but I don't think their interests lie in Arithmancy. And, forgive me, but in terms of difficulty it couldn't possibly compare with losing their father." Minerva smiled to take away some of the sting. "I seem to recall you and Mr Weasley and Mr Potter rising to overcome any number of difficulties when you were your children's ages."

"I hope they didn't get into the scrapes the three of us did as second years," Hermione said, chuckling softly.

"Well, neither of them has needed the infirmary beyond the usual bumps, bruises and sniffles. They haven't Polyjuiced themselves into great black cats, at any rate," Minerva said in a wry voice.

"No, they haven't needed to, thank God," Hermione said. "I can't imagine either of them fighting a basilisk, or worse. And to think that our parents knew nothing…I would cheerfully murder the twins if they kept things like that from me."

"That's part of the reason that it's been decades since we've had a professor whose child was in attendance at Hogwarts. It's easy to forget that learning magic is risky business, and that children are more capable of mayhem and courage than a protective parent wants to admit."

Hermione nodded. "It was easier not to worry about them when Ron and I were in Egypt. We both had our jobs, a house to look after; it was rather like a second honeymoon for a while." She examined her cuticles closely. "But after…after Ron died," she said, swallowing, "there wasn't any reason for me to be in Cairo, so far away from family and friends."

Minerva raised an eyebrow. "I'm very glad you came back, but I doubt that proximity will make you any less anxious, Hermione."

"Oh, don't worry; I don't intend to live in their pockets. I just wanted them to have access to me if they need me. And I need some sort of occupation, or I'll go mad and set fire to my hair and run screaming through Ottery St Catchpole."

"We can't have that, can we?" Minerva asked. "Or at the very least, wait until Guy Fawkes' Day, and make a good show of it," she added dryly.

"Molly is wonderful, and she's been so supportive, which is part of the problem. I think it would be too easy for me to stay at the Burrow forever, shuffling around in slippers and Ron's old jumpers, waiting for the boys and their wives and children to show up, waiting for Ginny and Harry and their brood to visit. Just waiting." She sniffled suddenly, and looked at the ceiling, blinking furiously.

"I'm sorry, Minerva," she said, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a knuckle. "I'm making a complete and utter hash of this. I should be telling you that 'it's my fondest dream to pass my wisdom to the next generation of witches and wizards,'" she said, mocking herself in a pompous voice.

Minerva laughed then, a great belly laugh that startled Hermione with its volume and force. "I've known you for twenty-five years, Hermione Weasley, and I'd like to see anyone try to _prevent_ you from passing your wisdom."

Hermione acknowledged this with a watery giggle and a nod of her head. "True."

Minerva summoned a notebook and a quill, and sketched out some figures. "This is the beginning salary for a new teacher at Hogwarts; given your advanced studies in Arithmancy under Professor bin Daoud, your post-graduate work for Gringotts, and your Order of Merlin, you are eligible for _this_ additional amount per annum, in addition to room and board during the term and a small stipend for supplies."

Hermione nodded; she appeared neither horrified nor astounded by the figure. "I would prefer to be kept out of consideration for head of house, at least until the twins have left school."

"I was going to suggest it myself; you have rather enough to be getting on with right now."

"Would I be able to move in the week before start of term? I'd like to familiarise myself with the curriculum."

"Certainly; the deputy headmaster will be there that week, although I won't arrive until the Friday before start of term. Mr and Miss Weasley will arrive via Express, though, is that correct?"

"Molly will be happy to put them on the train for me, yes," Hermione said.

"Good; I don't think Severus would appreciate dealing with students before he absolutely must." Minerva grimaced. "And the children won't want to be set apart from their peers any more than necessary." She set the paper and quill aside. "Well, then. Welcome to the staff, Professor Weasley," she said.

"Thank you, Headmistress," Hermione said, shaking Minerva's extended hand.

"I'll owl you the list of suggested texts and supplies for your classes; if you wish to change texts, please submit changes to me before 15 August; that's when the owls will go out to the students." She smiled fondly at her former student. "I'm very glad you'll be at Hogwarts again."

* * *

Molly Weasley was assembling cheese sandwiches for her grandchildren, a harassed expression on her face. She smiled wearily as Hermione came through the kitchen door. "Hello, dear; how did it go?" 

"Fine; where are the twins? They should be helping you."

"Oh, don't worry about it; Ginny brought her three over earlier, and they've been having a lovely time together."

Fabian and his cousin Jim-James had been inseparable since infancy, which usually meant that Blithe had been drafted to chase toddler Daisy and seven-year-old Arthur around the house. Hermione sighed internally; very likely Blithe would be in a fine temper by this time. It didn't take much to incense Blithe, but her grandmother's casual assumption that she lived for baby-minding ("_I_ did at your age") was especially irritating.

"Where are they?" she asked casually.

"The boys are getting cleaned up, and Blithe is on her broom. Daisy's napping, finally." Molly stacked the last of the sandwiches on a plate. "Did you get the job, then?"

"Yes," she said. Her gaze met Molly's, and they shared a rueful smile; Molly's eyes glazed over with tears, albeit briefly.

"Oh, dear, I'm so happy for you, but…"

"I know," Hermione said, her own eyes growing moist.

"Of course, you have to go; I knew you wouldn't be here forever." Molly patted her daughter-in-law solidly on the arm. "It's been such a joy having you and the twins here; you just as easily could have gone to stay in Surrey with your parents."

"It feels like the end of everything, Molly. The end of Ron and me; I just want to curl up inside it, make it stop, not go anywhere."

Despite the fact that Hermione was several inches taller, somehow Molly put her arms around Hermione's shoulders and hugged her tightly. "Ron wouldn't want that, love."

"I know," Hermione said, dashing a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. "I know he wouldn't; I've got to make my own life for myself now."

"Hermione, you were a good wife to my boy. You made him so happy, and you made it possible for him to do what he loved to do. I wish all my sons were as fortunate in their wiv—" Molly said, and broke off, remembering herself. "You deserve the chance to make yourself as happy as you made Ron. And when someone else comes along—"

Hermione held up her hands. "Oh, Molly, I'm nowhere near ready for that; I'm not even _thinking_ about other men now. I can't."

* * *

Blithe was flying pell-mell around the garden, performing terrifying dives and sudden stops fearlessly; of her children, Blithe was the more natural athlete, Hermione thought. Fabian usually played at Quidditch with his cousin, but otherwise preferred using his broom to _go_ somewhere. 

"Hullo, sweetheart," Hermione said.

Blithe looked down at her. "Hi, Mum!" she said, waving before hunching down over her broom and zooming around the house. "Oi, Mum, watch this! Uncle Harry said I can almost do the Wronski Feint!"

"Really? That's…great," Hermione said, still as lost over Quidditch moves as she had ever been.

Blithe finished her manoeuvre, and hovered just over her mother's head. "I've just got to shore up that last bit, and it'll be _solid_."

"Could you land for a bit, love?"

"Why?" Blithe asked suspiciously.

"I've something to tell you."

Blithe sighed and drifted down to the ground, dismounting. "What?"

"I'm going to be teaching at Hogwarts this year."

Blithe screwed up her face. "What will you teach?"

"Arithmancy."

Blithe blew a jet of air to knock her bangs out of her eyes. "Good. As long as it isn't Defence Against the Dark Arts or Divination. I don't want you for my teacher, Mum."

"I taught you when we lived in Egypt."

She snorted. "That was just me and Fabe, and you were _very_ hard on us."

Hermione put her arm around her daughter and patted her back. "You poor, poor thing," she cooed. "It's a wonder that you've recovered."

Blithe rolled her eyes and pulled away. "Gran taught me a new hex today."

"Whatever for?"

"Fabe and Jim-James were being _wankers_—" Blithe said.

"_Language_, Blithe," Hermione said, cutting her off.

"Well, they _were_. They took my broom, and were tossing it around over my head, so I yelled at them that they were stupid bloody wankers, and Gran didn't like me saying that--" she said.

"Neither do I," Hermione muttered.

"—and she said that she'd teach me the hex she taught Ginny, and that Great-Grandmother Prewett taught her, for when the boys were bedevilling them." She smiled maliciously. "The Bat-Bogey Hex!"

Hermione smiled. "I've never learned that one; are you any good?"

She stuck her snub nose in the air. "You'll have to ask Fabian and Jim-James about that, Mum," she said, and giggled.

* * *

"That was disgusting, Mum," Fabian said, rubbing his washrag-draped finger inside his ear. 

"You should have thought of that before you teased your sister."

"It was Jim-James' idea," he said defensively.

"Sure it was. You missed a spot," she said, pointing to the back of his ear. He scrubbed at it frantically.

"First chance I get I'm using that hex on Blithe."

"You deserved what you got; it's still better than what you would have got from me." She looked narrowly at him. "I'd have locked up your broom."

He grumbled at her.

"Fabian, I took a position at Hogwarts. I'm going to teach Arithmancy."

He nodded crossly. "I'm _not_ taking Arithmancy."

"I know."

"I'm doing Runes instead."

"That's fine," she said.

"And I won't have dinner with you every night. My friends…"

"Darling, you don't have to pay any more attention to me than to any other professor. I won't even check to see you're doing your homework."

He scowled. "Promise?"

Hermione hugged her son; at thirteen, he was as tall as she was, and promised to be taller still by the end of his third year. He was a handsome boy despite his teenaged gawkiness, although she tended to bias where her children were concerned.

"I promise. I do hope you'll come to visit from time to time, or if you need me for anything." He raised his head hopefully. "If you need me for anything besides i money /i , that is." He slumped again, making rumbling noises in his chest.

* * *

A/N: There will be very little bosom-heaving or drama-llama-ry here. Instead, I'm trying to portray a romantic relationship based on friendship between adults. I'm also attempting to portray the teenagers as prickly and vulnerable as the real article. 

The story is 75 written, and I'll be posting chapters weekly; by the time I get to the last chapters, they'll be all done (that's the plan, anyway!).

Thanks to my flist at LiveJournal for their early encouragement and feedback. I started writing this as a Christmas gift fic for revena, persephoneflame and pinkyheather. Obviously, it's well past Christmas, and not done yet. But soon, my pets...soon...

Extra special thanks to my beta selened, one of the hardest-working betas in fandom. And she writes pretty durn well, too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Becoming**

Chapter Two

by snarkypants

She arrived at Hogwarts a month later with little fanfare and less welcome.

The grounds were dark and silent as she walked up from Hogsmeade; she could practically feel eyes glaring at her from just inside the forest, and there was no comforting glow or smudge of fire smoke from Hagrid's—from the _groundskeeper's_ cabin, rather.

The castle itself was similarly dark and silent; the only time she could remember such a tomblike feeling about the place had been those morose days before Dumbledore's funeral, before the closure of farewell and after the shock of ostensible murder.

She was surprised that the gates would actually admit her, but admit her they did, with a rusty shriek of protest at being made to work at this lamentable hour.

The castle sat in silhouette in front of the setting sun, rendering the light dazzling if she looked up at the towers; she concentrated instead on keeping her footing in the deepening shadows.

She was much more nervous about falling than she had ever been as a girl; she had belly-flopped spectacularly with the twins when she was seven months along and ever since the slightest wobble in her ankles was enough to make her hands shake and turn her perspiration to ice. Not blessed with natural grace, she lit her wand with a murmured _Lumos_ and picked her way carefully up the ragged cobble of stones that masqueraded as a path.

She told herself that she was much too sensible to be cringing like some maiden in a Gothic romance, but she had to admit that the trappings were quite effective. If Professor Snape wanted her off-balance and unsettled when she arrived he was succeeding admirably.

_Lone woman, walking fearfully up rocks to dark, forbidding castle, populated solely by dark, forbidding man_, she thought, suppressing a giggle. _All the picture needs is jagged streaks of lightning and a roll of thunder for the impression to be complete_. She paused, waiting for the weather gods to issue a "take that, you" for her cheek, but the day had been gloriously clear for once and the sky beyond the castle was a deep shade of apricot, melting into a velvety dark aubergine overhead.

She looked back towards the castle, and jumped, a startled scream dying in her throat. No one had been in front of the building just a moment ago, and now here was the dark, forbidding man himself. He had changed little since last she had seen him; he was still lean, saturnine, with black robes and greasy hair, now liberally streaked with silver. He wore a goatee, neatly trimmed, with a narrow vein of silver running just to the left of his chin.

"Professor Weasley," he said, rather frostily, she thought, although she had expected nothing less.

_I will not giggle now, I will not giggle now, I will not giggle now_, she thought furiously, trying to compose her expression to one befitting an Arithmancy Mistress rather than a silly teenaged girl. "P-professor Snape," she said, nearly choking with the effort. "I'm sorry, you startled me," she said with a rush of breath. "How did you know I was here?"

"The gates were charmed to admit you and to alert me," he said.

"Oh, of course. Silly of me."

He said nothing, but even at ten yards' distance she could see his eyebrow rise in agreement.

* * *

"Your belongings arrived this afternoon; the house-elves have put them into Professor Vector's old quarters. I'm sure you can find the way," he said in a tone that told her she was _dismissed_, thank you.

"Uh, actually I can't. I don't know where any of the staff quarters are."

"Really? There is a part of this castle you _don't_ know about, Mrs. Weasley? I find myself astonished," he said, abruptly turning and sweeping up the corridor, theoretically in the direction of said quarters. She had little choice but to double her speed, following meekly in his wake.

He sailed ahead of her, his black robes flying and she trudged along behind him, feeling very much like an out-of-shape, middle-aged, frumpy witch in her sensible trainers and casual Muggle clothing. It was enough to put her in a sour frame of mind, indeed.

The gemstones in the great house-points hourglasses glinted sleepily at Hermione as if they, too, were resting up for the new term. She was feeling annoyed enough with Professor Snape that she waited until he was out of earshot and then aimed her wand at the Slytherin glass. "Ten points from Slytherin," she muttered and was dismayed when nothing happened.

"They're not charmed to work yet," he said mordantly, his voice carrying loudly from somewhere up ahead.

* * *

Professor Snape wasn't any more welcoming to her now she was a professor than he had been when she was a student; big surprise.

She had spent most of Monday setting up her classroom. Professor Vector didn't seem to have thrown away anything in more than twenty years of teaching, so Hermione's first task was to banish trash, broken equipment and ripped textbooks. She was thoroughly grubby by lunch, but by dinnertime she felt that the space was ready for students.

On Tuesday, she had moved books and parchments into her new office. She was finished by lunch and rewarded herself with a walk down to Hogsmeade. She purchased quills and ink at Scrivenshaft's, popped into The Three Broomsticks for a bite to eat and ended up having a pleasant visit with Madam Rosmerta.

It had been two days and she realized that she had forgot how _cut off_ from the rest of the world Hogwarts was. Even the castle ghosts seemed to be on holiday, with the sole exception of Peeves. Peeves was so delighted to see someone else in the castle besides Snape and the house-elves that he followed Hermione around with an endless supply of inkwells, lobbing them at her whenever her guard was down.

Despite the need to keep out a weather eye for the poltergeist, Hermione slipped easily into a soothing rhythm. She hadn't slept well since Ron's death; she would awaken at the slightest noise and struggle to return to sleep.

But the noises, creaks and groans of the ancient castle were familiar to her; she had slept alone here for years and knew she was safe. She awoke rested and ready for a brisk walk around the grounds.

She met Professor Snape in the staff room for breakfast on Wednesday morning after dodging Peeves through the corridors. Severus nodded curtly when she entered, taking in her woollen jacket and pink face with a raised eyebrow.

"It's chilly in the mornings after living in Egypt," she said.

He nodded and turned his attention back to his remaining piece of toast.

"Would you mind terribly if I light a fire?" she asked, rubbing her hands together.

"Suit yourself; I'm finished." He folded his napkin and tossed it to the table.

She shrugged and lifted the cover from her breakfast.

* * *

Her task for Wednesday: to set up her quarters.

It was nearly lunch and she hadn't accomplished a blessed thing. Just the thought of creating a home that she would share with neither her husband nor her children filled her with melancholy. She would lift something out of a box and spend minutes, hours, remembering just where she and Ron had acquired it.

Here was a framed photograph of Ron taken a few years after their marriage. There was a marked difference between the pictures of him before and those taken after they were married. The later ones were much more confident; in them, his body language and the smiles he gave her were cockier and more intimate. These were her favourites: his slow, lazy smile, his thumbs hooked over his hips, his fingers flat and pointing not so subtly towards, well, his crotch.

She certainly missed that aspect of her marriage. She and Ron had been somewhat inexperienced when they came together, but by dint of much reading (on Hermione's part) and much experimentation they had rubbed along quite well together. Ron's image winked at her, smiling in invitation.

She withdrew several lengths of beautifully woven silk in sunset colours, from violet to fuchsia to cognac to topaz. She had purchased the sari fabric when she and the twins accompanied Ron on his first business trip to India. Originally, she had intended to have them made into tropical-weight robes, but she just couldn't bear to cut into them and had instead used them as window treatments in their home. She planned to use them here to separate the workspace in her quarters from her relaxation space. Hermione lifted the silk to her face; she still could smell the sweet, slightly fetid scent of the night-blooming jasmine that draped their house in Cairo.

One box was devoted to touristy souvenirs that she had bought for the fun of it. Miniature sarcophagi, plaster scarabs, 'ancient' papyrus, stone rubbings, that sort of thing. Now that she had a proper British dwelling she intended liberally to pepper her surroundings with tacky bits of oh-so-authentic artefacts.

There were some genuine treasures as well; her mentor, Professor bin Daoud, had given her an exquisite bronze of Anubis when she left Egypt. She had no idea as to its monetary value, but the professor told her that it had been in his family for 'quite a long time,' which, to an elderly man who thought in millennial terms, was probably a heroic understatement.

Gringotts' Tokyo office had commissioned three beautiful calligraphy paintings for Ron after he dealt with some particularly stubborn curses for them, followed a few years later by a small collection of charmed ivory netsuke that re-enacted Japanese mythological stories.

The Beijing office had given them a statue of the goddess Kwan Yin when the twins were babies; in those days, she had travelled with Ron to many of the exotic locales in his territory, and the Chinese Wizards and Witches had been delighted by the babies' red-gold hair.

There was the periwinkle blue silk kimono Ron brought her after a business trip to Japan had sparked a nasty row; she couldn't remember the reason for the fight, other than being stuck in the house with cranky toddlers while he travelled the world, but she _did _remember the make-up sex.

Another treasure was the ancient preserved lotus in a crystal case, an anniversary gift Ron had found in the Liaoning Province in China. She unpacked an early-seventeenth-century Snitch from Sri Lanka, a gift from the Sri Lankan National Team after he removed the curse from their practice pitch. Ron had been particularly proud of that story despite the fact that Sri Lanka lost more matches after he broke the curse than before.

Finally, after several hours of unpacking and reminiscing and several dampened handkerchiefs, she had placed things, more or less, where she thought they would live during the school year. She hung pictures and paintings in eye-level groupings and relocated torches to take greatest advantage of the light. She moved her clothing and toiletries into the capacious wardrobe in the en suite lavatory. There was little left to do in her rooms but build up the fire and shelve all of her books, which was more pleasure than chore.

She changed from her grubby jeans and jumper into a casual set of violet robes for dinner. She had missed lunch earlier and was now ravenously hungry; more than that, she was lonely as well. And while Severus Snape might resent the hell out of her for merely breathing, he was someone to talk to; the house-elves remembered her from her student days and studiously avoided her.

Her casual robes were rather chilly, truth be told, and she briefly debated whether to wear a cardigan to keep herself warm before imagining Hermione-as-Dolores-Umbridge, down to a frilly purple Alice band in her hair. She shuddered. "I'd rather freeze," she said aloud and left her rooms.

* * *

She walked briskly, mostly to keep herself warm en route to the staff room. Swinging her arms also helped and by the time she arrived she was breathing quickly and her face was flushed.

"Good evening, Professor Snape," she said breezily.

He froze, arrested in the act of raising a glass of wine to his mouth. "M-mrs Weasley," he said thickly.

"I hope you didn't hold lunch for me this afternoon," she said. "I was busy unpacking."

"Not at all," he said, starting as he remembered the glass in his hand. "I'm not accustomed to having company the week before term starts."

"What do you do during this week? I've been so busy I haven't noticed anything else."

He looked at his glass as if inspecting it for flaws. "I spend a few days testing all of the wards and ensuring the necessary structural repairs have been made over the holidays. Receiving shipments of supplies." He shrugged. "Nothing too burdensome."

"It sounds peaceful," she said. "Thank you for allowing me to intrude."

He nodded, examining the glass.

Their dishes appeared before them. The standard meat-and-two-veg. She laughed. "I'm really starting to miss Molokhiyya soup with bits of lamb in it, or pigeons stuffed with rice, with baklava or basbousa for afters." She speared a squishy bit of carrot with her fork. "Or at the very least, a nice curry. Pity there's no Indian nearby."

"There _is_ an Indian restaurant in Hogsmeade now," he said.

She wrinkled her nose. "Really? I missed it yesterday. Do they deliver?"

"Regrettably, no," he said.

"I'll have to seek it out tomorrow," she said.

"You're going to the village?" he asked, still fascinated with his glass.

"I have some errands to run," she said. "I'll need a few more supplies to feel ready for students." Her forehead wrinkled. "Do _you_ fancy a trip?"

"No," he said slowly, looking up at her. Just as quickly he looked down again. "You may wish to stop in at Gladrags'." He cleared his throat. "Your robes… not quite the thing… teenaged boys…" His voice trailed off, and she saw he was blushing. "They're rather revealing," he finished sternly.

"Really?" she asked blankly, looking down. These robes had a very modest neckline, she thought, what could he be— _oh!_

There, covered only by dark whisper-thin silk, were her nipples in bold relief, erect and projecting through the fabric, highlighted and shadowed with every flicker of the fire. She gasped and tucked her hands into her armpits, which succeeded only in thrusting her breasts up and out, cleavage clearly revealed. Snape looked away again and she put her elbows on the table, concealing herself.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said. "I haven't got heavier robes yet and it's so cold—," she said and stopped, blushing anew at her body's explicit response to the chill and her own faltering explanation. "Of course I'll drop in at Gladrags', Professor; I've been wearing mostly Muggle clothes since I left Egypt, and—"

"Perfectly, ah, all right," he said, sneaking a glance upward to see if it was safe to look across the table again. It was; her head was in her hands. He stabbed at his roast, cutting a piece of the tender meat with his fork. "The students might just, ah, find them—_it_—it, ah, somewhat distracting."

She squeezed her eyes shut in mortification.

* * *

A/N: Thanks to my flist, especially revena, persephoneflame, and pinkyheather for the inspiration and encouragement.

And, as always, thanks to selened for being my beta reader.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Hermione spent a long but pleasant morning being fitted for new winter-weight robes. Surprisingly, Gladrags Wizard Wear-Hogsmeade was otherwise empty so she had the tailor's full attention while she chose colours, linings and embroidered details.

"Oh, it's always like this before the start of term; everyone tends to make the trip to Diagon Alley instead of coming to Hogsmeade," Madam Arachne said, shrugging. "You might think they'd rather come here and avoid the crowds, but it's as much a social outing as a shopping excursion for most. They'll be back in a week or two and I'll be frightfully busy."

"I'm glad I caught you today, then," Hermione said. "I'll need all the help you can give me. I haven't been able to find off the peg robes that will suit my age and my new profession, and when it comes to buying bespoke I don't know how to pull everything together."

Arachne smiled broadly and led Hermione to her worktable. "With career robes I like to vary the neckline, the sleeve style, the shape of the skirt or any combination thereof. And you needn't limit yourself to black or navy blue." She spread a length of wool in a beautiful dark cranberry shade. "This is still professional and businesslike, as are these," she said, bringing out reams of worsted wool in cobalt blue, bottle green, dove grey, a warm, rusty brown. "These colours would be lovely on you, ma'am."

Without waiting for a demur, Arachne summoned a sketchpad and a pencil, and began making random vertical and diagonal marks that gradually became a woman wearing a set of robes. "This is the basic style, but if you just change _this_," she tapped the pad with her wand and the neckline changed, showing a tastefully narrow slice of cleavage. "See? Still modest, still professional, but elegant and feminine. Look at it in the brown." She tapped the pad again and colour swirled onto the drawing.

"Ohh," Hermione breathed, charmed by the picture. "That's just lovely."

"And we can alter the sleeves thusly," Arachne said, tapping the drawing. The sleeves, which began life as voluminous bubbles of fabric gathered at wrists and shoulders, shrank into slim tubes flaring in graceful bells just above the knuckles. She looked at Hermione to see if her customer liked the change and smiled. "If you were teaching Potions you wouldn't want to wear sleeves like this, but as you're teaching Arithmancy the greatest danger to your wardrobe will come from chalk dust, I think; I can put a special charm on your robes to repel it."

Hermione smiled a little ruefully. "There are so many details; it's rather overwhelming."

"We haven't even got to the fun part yet, Mrs Weasley," Madam Arachne said with a smile. "Before that, do you have a preference for foundation charms? You've a lovely waistline so I shouldn't think you'd want corsetry, but one of my _soutien-gorge_ charms on the robes will be invaluable as there's no straps to worry about."

"Nothing too…" Hermione began, and mimed her breasts being squeezed up and together.

"Heavens, no, _that_ charm is used only at customer request, usually on eveningwear." She gave Hermione a sly, sidelong look. "Or on special-occasion lingerie. I have a lovely black spider silk that just came in from South America…"

"Well… maybe later on," Hermione stammered.

"Of course," Arachne replied, all business.

"Um… do you have any kind of support for _this_?" Hermione asked, patting her tummy. "Callisthenics have never done a thing for it, not since I had my children."

"Oh, absolutely." Arachne popped a hand against her seemingly drum-taut belly. "I've had five children, myself, and I would never wear anything without _that_ charm."

"I'm beginning to understand the value of bespoke robes," Hermione said, awed.

"We do cost more, but my customers believe having a garment tailored to one's specific needs and shape is well worth it," Arachne said.

"I've always been too overwhelmed by all of the variables; I'm Muggleborn, so I didn't have my mother to help me with choosing my robes," Hermione said. "And while my mother-in-law is a lovely woman, her sense of style is… eccentric."

The tailor chuckled. "It's a matter of proportion and not putting too much on each garment. Since the style is simple, without ruffles or extraneous fabric, some embroidery along the neckline and sleeves would be lovely; perhaps in gold?" Arachne tapped the drawing with her wand and her brow knit thoughtfully. "No... Perhaps only at the sleeves." A thick band of Celtic interlaced embroidery bled across the belled sleeves. "Still too much... just at the bottom, I think." Another tap and the Celtic band melted from the sleeves and transferred to the hem of the skirt. "What do you think?"

Hermione's jaw worked soundlessly for a moment. "Yes. Yes, it's absolutely brilliant."

"We can change the colour—," Arachne began, but Hermione cut her off.

"It's perfect as it is. That's it exactly." She grinned animatedly at the tailor.

"Excellent. There's the first one with four more to go," the tailor said. "Shall we try the cranberry red next?"

* * *

By lunch, Arachne had completed the five designs and taken additional orders for three pairs of buttery-soft but sturdy walking boots in complementary colours, a heavy woollen cloak, and a lighter-weight rain cloak. The robes would be ready by the end of the day, but the boots and cloaks would be delivered via owls on Friday. "Will that be suitable?" Arachne asked.

"That will be _more_ than suitable. Thank you for all of your assistance," Hermione said, signing the invoice.

"Not at all, Mrs Weasley; many of my customers can be rather inflexible about their clothing and I don't get to do much creative work at all. I do hope you will enjoy your robes."

"I'm sure I will." Hermione paused. "I'll be back at five to collect them."

She walked next door to Scrivenshaft's; in the absence of a nearby bookseller's the stationer's would suffice for browsing.

Hermione wrote quick letters to both Fabian and Blithe, attaching a few Galleons and some sweets from Honeydukes, and sent them to The Burrow via the strongest owl she could hire from the post office. Then she went in search of the Indian restaurant for her lunch.

She found Café Kismet tucked neatly between Dervish & Banges and The Hog's Head, explaining why she had missed it on her previous trips to the village. The scent of garam masala and roasted lamb filled the air and she sighed with deep contentment.

* * *

"Hullo, ma'am," a young woman addressed her as she entered the restaurant. "One for lunch?"

"Yes, thank you," Hermione said, smiling, and following her to a table. The restaurant was decorated with the bright colours she had seen and loved in India and the smells coming from the kitchen were heavenly. How did Professor Snape refrain from nipping down here for lunch every afternoon?

_He probably doesn't wish to leave the school unattended now he's opened it_, she thought with a jolt. _He did say it was_ 'regrettable' _that the Kismet didn't deliver_.

She scowled at the menu in front of her. Damn!

She was going to have to take some food back for Professor Snape. If she ignored the impulse she knew she would regret it later. But if she _didn't_ ignore the impulse he would probably despise the gesture and look at her as if she were mad... and she would still regret it later.

Not for the first time she cursed her inquisitive nature.

It was the least she could do, though, after practically exposing her breasts to him and embarrassing him horribly in the process the night before.

With an internal sigh she flagged down the server.

She are lunch in Madam Puddifoot's instead, home of the phrase 'dainty little,' as in 'dainty little sandwiches,' 'dainty little salads,' 'dainty little cups,' and 'dainty little cakes.' Not to mention the 'dainty little man' who tried heroically to catch her eye throughout her meal. She was grateful she had brought the fifth year Arithmancy text to review as she ate, otherwise she would have run out of things to look at while she avoided his mooncalf glances.

After lunch she found a quiet little grove of trees near The Three Broomsticks where she could retire in peace to read and wait for her robes to be ready.

* * *

So it was that Hermione Granger Weasley trudged around the lake and up the hillside to Hogwarts, arms laden with five new sets of robes and a bag full of takeaway orders of Chicken Curry, Lamb Roghan Josh, a small order of Saag Paneer, and side orders of Naan bread and Pilau rice.

If it all came to smash and he told her to piss off and take her food with her, she would at least have plenty for a good meal, with some left over for lunch and possibly dinner the next day.

* * *

Hermione dressed in one of her new sets of robes. This one was dove grey wool with a high neck and long, plain sleeves. The conservative cut contrasted with a dark grey silken cord criss-crossing around her ribcage and her waist, subtly delineating her body without vulgarity; Madam Arachne had served her well indeed. She tied her hair back with another length of the cord.

The robes had been more expensive than _prêt-à-porter_, but if she could look _this_ nice, with _this_ little effort, every day, they had been worth every Galleon.

* * *

With some apprehension, she carried the charm-warmed takeaway food down to the staff room. Professor Snape wouldn't have called down for his dinner yet, being just six-thirty. She arranged the dishes on the table and waited.

She didn't have long to wait. By six-forty he entered the staff room, a quizzical look on his face.

"What is all this?" he asked.

"I brought dinner back from the Kismet; I hope you don't mind."

"Why would you do that?" He scowled at the steaming plates.

She shrugged. "I was going to bring some for my own dinner and thought you might enjoy it as well."

He made a guttural noise of disbelief.

"Oh, well, if you don't like Indian food…"

"What are you trying to achieve? Getting a rise out of the deputy headmaster? Acquiring an ally?"

She refrained from rolling her eyes, but only just. "With all due respect, Professor, it's only dinner. I don't want to possess your immortal soul for the price of few pieces of Naan."

"What _do_ you want?"

"I don't want anything from you." She thought. "Oh, on second thought maybe I do want _something_."

He sneered. "And that would be…?"

"I want you to stop assuming that I want something from you. It's Indian takeaway, for goodness' sake. They don't deliver; I do, but just this once. You might think about shutting up and enjoying it."

She didn't pay him any further attention and instead concentrated on serving herself dinner. The house-elves had brought a few bottles of cold lager and she removed the cap from one with a flick of her wand.

He was still standing just behind her, immobile.

She tore off a piece of Naan and used the flatbread to chase a chunk of lamb around her plate before raising it to her mouth. "Oh, that's good," she said.

After about five minutes of watching her eat and listening to her running commentary he finally sat down with a sigh and dished himself a plate.

She popped the cap from another bottle of lager and handed it to him. "I'm glad you could join me," she said.

He grumbled.

She hid a smile.

_

* * *

A/N: This chapter is entirely my own wish fulfilment (yeah, like the __rest_ of my fanfic isn't). I would love to be able to buy an entire work wardrobe, shoes, underwear, outerwear, everything at one whack and then be done with it for a year or so.A/N: This chapter is entirely my own wish fulfilment (yeah, like the of my fanfic isn't). I would love to be able to buy an entire work wardrobe, shoes, underwear, outerwear, everything at one whack and then be done with it for a year or so. 

_Soutien-gorge_ is French for brassiere, which itself sounds like it should be French, but isn't, at least in English usage. Another linguistic oddity: _soutien-gorge_ literally means 'throat supporter.' Who knew?

The foundation charms… _I want them_. No more slippy straps, no more busted or pokey-through underwires, no more 'fat pants.'

Thanks to my flist at livejournal for giving me encouragement and suggestions as I've worked on this. It's really difficult to write several chapters of a WIP without some sort of feedback, especially when you're not ready to have it beta'ed and posted.

And finally, thanks to selened, beta and Brit-picker extraordinaire.


	4. Chapter 4

**Becoming**

Chapter Four  
by snarkypants

"The rest of the staff will arrive tomorrow, is that correct?" Hermione asked before taking a drink from her lager.

Snape nodded, seemingly intent on mixing his curry and rice to just the right shade of saffron.

"Morning or evening?"

"Afternoon."

"Ah," she said, taking a bite of Saag Paneer.

He pushed his fork through his curry, tracing a circle, before abruptly setting it down. He cleared his throat. "Your… your new robes. They are quite suitable."

"Yes, Madam Arachne was a great help." She took another piece of Naan. "My Egyptian robes were intended to be worn with a drape; I forgot all about it, thinking that since I wasn't in Egypt any longer I didn't need to be swathed in layers of fabric. I've mostly worn Muggle clothes since I came back to England."

"Well, then. This is suitable." He took up his fork again, and ate a bite.

"Would you like some of the Saag Paneer?" she asked.

"I don't eat spinach."

At this admission he sounded so much like Fabian at his intractable best that she looked down to hide a smile. Unsuccessfully as it turned out.

"Why is that amusing?" he asked sharply.

She chuckled. "You sounded like my son just then. I'm sorry to laugh, but you're the last man I ever expected to sound like a boy."

"Not too surprising, I hope. I _was_ a boy, once."

"Well before _my_ time," she said with another grin.

He looked narrowly at her. "Surely you're not trying to bait me about my age, Professor Weasley," he said.

He had a strong brow and heavy eyebrows which he used to great effect; with the slightest dip of his head, his eyes were in shadow. She had to lean forward slightly so she could maintain eye contact.

"Perhaps I'm just trying to 'get a rise out of the deputy headmaster,'" she said cheekily.

Something flared behind his eyes. She couldn't quite identify it, but the answering flicker in her belly felt something like fear and something like—

"That particular genie would be difficult to put back into its bottle," he said almost languidly. His expression was stern, but there was still that… intensity in his gaze that unsettled her. It wasn't an entirely angry sort of intensity, either; she had seen enough in six years as his student to know _that_ expression.

Did the man never _blink?_ Her own eyes were watering, but he held her gaze without difficulty. Like a rabbit held in thrall by a cobra, she couldn't look away.

"Are you quite certain that you _want_ to get a rise out of me?" he continued. "It's a dangerous game to play, and I play at games only if there's a very good chance of winning." He paused, taking a pull from his bottle of lager. "Unless the victor wants a prize that I am prepared to forfeit."

Her mouth went dry, and all the hairs stood up on her arms; they prickled against the wool of her robes. Was he flirting with her? It had been so long, she was admittedly out of practice. Would she feel like this, all flustered and jittery, if he weren't flirting? And _Professor Snape_ flirting? She couldn't wrap her brain around the equation; there weren't enough variables in Arithmancy to parse this one.

A shred of Naan bounced off her nose and she blinked in surprise. When she glanced up at him, he was inspecting the fireplace, a look of studied innocence on his face.

"What?" he asked.

"You lobbed a piece of bread at me," she said in disbelief.

"I? I beg your pardon, Professor Weasley; I recall doing no such thing." He looked amused as he bent to take another bite of his curry.

A bit of bread hit him square on the forehead.

* * *

Soon, the air was thick with flying bread.

"Oh, sod it!" Hermione said, looking about her. "I'm all out of ammunition."

"Do you surrender?" he asked, from behind the sofa.

"Never!" she cried.

"You're trapped; you must surrender," he said.

"Y'know, it's a shame that we've wasted so much good Naan."

"Don't change the subject, Weasley. Give in now and the terms will be much more favourable for you."

"How favourable?" she asked, as a giddy frisson of excitement raced through her belly.

"Let's just say that if you _do_ surrender this is the only room you'll be required to clean."

Silence.

_Cleaning_? That was his prize? She didn't know whether to feel relieved or insulted, disappointed or ill-used. Really, was that all she was good for, cleaning? Wiping bums and noses? The _bastard_!

"You started it!" she said indignantly, painfully aware that her tone was childish. _Better than sounding mumsy_, she thought.

"The victor, the spoils, Professor," he said with a smirk in his voice.

She was staring at the ceiling trying to figure a way out of the Battle for the Staff Room when _he_ appeared.

He couldn't have been more welcome than Patton and his Third Army. His eyes lit with an unholy gleam as he aimed a bottle of ink at Professor Snape.

"Peeves!" Snape roared.

Hermione leapt over the chair and out into the corridor with a nimbleness that belied her age, laughing all the while. "The victor, the spoils, Professor," she cried as she sprinted to her quarters.

She slammed her door behind her, doubling, tripling the wards. When she was satisfied with her immediate security she sank against the door, giggling helplessly.

_

* * *

An hour later she was alerted by the sound of an owl's insistent tapping against her window. She immediately suspected a secondary attack, and so performed a few protection charms._

If she was expecting an invisibility cloaked Snape hovering outside her window, however, she was to be disappointed. The owl, an ordinary-looking old grey with a harried expression, sat on the window ledge with a roll of parchment tied to his leg.

She gave him a biscuit and opened the message.

_Hermione:_

_Bill's coming up to Hogwarts on the Express tomorrow. _

_He really wants to talk to you about Ron. Please hear him out, dear. He's utterly distraught._

_Fabian and Blithe are well and send you their best, as do I. They've missed you and look forward to seeing you Monday._

_Molly_

Hermione's light-hearted mood evaporated rather abruptly. "Thank you," she told the owl. "No reply."

* * *

She awoke in a sour temper that was probably all out of proportion to actual events, but she didn't particularly care. She took breakfast in her rooms and hastened herself to her classroom to immerse herself in work before her brother-in-law's imminent arrival.

Just after lunch she heard his oh-so-considerate tapping at the door. "Enter," she said, mentally sighing.

"Hermione," he said, an obsequious note to his voice. He crossed the room to take both her hands between his own, patting them much as he had ever since Ron's death. "How _are_ you?"

"Quite well, actually," she said, only barely resisting the urge to yank her hands away.

"You're _very_ brave," he said, his face creasing sympathetically. She loathed this expression of his; she had only seen it since Ron died, and it made his scars at the hands of Fenrir Greyback all the more grotesque. He spoke very slowly, as if widowhood had somehow addled her mind.

She sighed. "What can I do for you, Bill? I'm rather busy, getting ready for students."

"Oh, Hermione, I'm so sorry… when I think that you wouldn't have to be here if I…" he said, faltering.

"I don't _have_ to be anywhere, Bill. Ron left me rather comfortably off as you know."

"It was my job to look out for him, Hermione. He wouldn't have died… he had too much responsibility for one man…"

She put her hands up. "Stop right there, Bill. I'm sure you mean well, but you're being horribly insulting to Ron. You helped him get a junior position _fifteen years_ ago. You didn't _make_ Ron the senior cursebreaker for the African and Asian districts and you didn't _make_ Ron a partner after only nine years with the company; Ron did that all on his own."

"I hired the junior who—," Bill began, but Hermione cut him off.

"Who deviated from Ron's procedures, I know. He was young and inexperienced; that's why he was with Ron."

"I should have been there—," he said.

"Bill, you've been out of the field since '95. What would you have done?" He clenched his teeth and looked down. "Ron loved what he did and he was very good at it. He was sodding _brilliant_ at it. He saved seven people from the effects of that curse."

"I could have helped," Bill said.

"No, you couldn't. He was a grown man and very skilled at his work." Her voice thickened with tears. "He didn't need your protection, Bill." She heard the echo of her voice and cleared her throat. "I don't mean to yell at you."

She saw a flicker of movement from the doorway; Severus stood there, eyebrows raised.

"Professor Snape, may I help you?"

"I was looking for the source of all the noise, Professor Weasley."

Bill's mouth tightened in anger at being told off in front of Snape.

"You've found it, then," she said evenly, then turned her attention back to her brother-in-law. "If it's your fault that you hired him, that you hired the junior, then it's my fault that I didn't insist we live in England like a proper family should. But we're ignoring the fact that he died doing exactly what he loved, that he wasn't suited to desk work, that none of us ever saw him happier or more alive than when he was cursebreaking. He didn't have to take second place to you or your brothers, he didn't come in behind Harry or me. He was the very best in his field and you know it. So do me a favour and drop the 'condescending big brother' stuff. It's annoying and it's offensive."

He sighed deeply. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I was so sure that you blamed me for Ron." For the first time since Ron's death he looked her in the eye.

"I don't. Perhaps I might have wished he had a safer job, but I never blamed you for it."

He hung his head, his long, thinning hair drooping. She was surprised to see a werewolf-scarred, middle-aged man with a thickened waist instead of the glamorous young cursebreaker she had met as a fourth year. She wondered suddenly if Fleur still saw him as that thrilling young man or if she secretly despaired of his dragon-tooth earring and hide boots. Bill had given up his dangerous profession for the war effort, but he had kept his desk job in London to placate his young wife.

"You envied Ron just a bit, didn't you?" she asked softly.

He snorted derisively. "Just a bit? Christ. I never thought he'd… I never wanted him to fail, Hermione, I swear it. I just didn't want him to do _better_ than me. And with you two married I thought it was just a matter of time before you dragged him back to England, but you never did."

He plopped down into a chair, as if his legs would no longer hold him. "And then the twins came and I just knew you'd insist on living close to home and that'd clip his wings for good. But you didn't and he just kept on going." A tear ran into the crease of his nose. "I was so proud of him, but I dearly wanted to see him taken down a peg or two."

"Well," Hermione said. "Well, he was."

Bill's face crumpled at this and he spent a few moments trying to control himself. "Not like that, Hermione. Never like that."

"I know."

"You made it all possible for him, Sis," he said, reverting to the nickname he had used with her before Ron died. "You gave up a lot for him."

"I've never seen it that way. I lived in a beautiful, exotic country, travelled all over the world, studied under a world-renowned Arithmancer, and had two wonderful children. Perhaps I didn't have a traditional career, but you mustn't think that I spent fifteen years denying my own talents and ambitions. It all boiled down to the fact that I could do my work anywhere and he couldn't."

He laughed shortly. "Fleur's ambitions have always been more social than professional."

That was indisputable and she didn't bother denying it.

He stood up and gave her a brother's hug. "My little brother was very fortunate in many things, including his wife." He smiled, and pecked a quick, avuncular kiss on her forehead. "Thanks for talking with me, Sis."

"Anytime, Bill," she said, pleasantly surprised that, for the first time since Ron's death, she meant it.

"Mum's counting on us all during the Christmas hols; you're not going to Surrey, are you?"

"And miss ickle George's wedding? I wouldn't dream of it," she said.

* * *

She hadn't seen Severus slip away during her talk with Bill, but he wasn't anywhere to be found when she left her classroom.

The castle was filled with activity; magical energy fairly hummed through the corridors. Poppy Pomfrey was unloading cases of common medicinal potions in the infirmary; her face lit up when Hermione entered.

"How are you, my dear girl? I was so pleased when Minerva said you'd be here."

"I'm well, thank you; can I help you with that?"

"No, I'm almost finished." With a flick of her wand the bottles flew into their compartments.

"Have you seen Professor Snape?"

"Not since he met the train this afternoon. How was your visitor?" Poppy asked slyly.

"Fine. Why?"

"I could hear you yelling at the poor boy; he seems to have deserved it, though."

"I was _that_ loud?"

"No; Peeves is at it early this term. He likes to amplify staff arguments whenever he gets the opportunity."

"Oh, lovely," she said caustically, turning toward the door.

Poppy chuckled. "I'll tell Severus you're looking for him."

"No need," Hermione said.

* * *

She found him in the Defence classroom. "Sorry about the noise earlier."

He acknowledged this with a nod of his head. "Mr Weasley has left, I take it?"

"He has; sadder but wiser," she said wryly.

Severus snorted. "He'd have to be."

"I enjoyed our dinner last night," she said.

He raised one eyebrow. "I was going to insist on a rematch in a neutral location without poltergeist interference." He cut a glance in her direction. "You pressed an unfair advantage."

"Why not?" she asked breezily. "All's fair in l—all's fair in war, isn't it?" She blushed, realizing that her hesitation over the word 'love' was more suggestive than the phrase itself. She had an unfortunate habit of embarrassing herself in his presence.

"Only if you win," he said. "If you lose you make reparation."

"Oh, I'll win," she said with a smile. "I won't make the mistake of running out of ammo again."

"We'll see," he said. "If you'll excuse me now I'll see you in the staff room for dinner.

* * *

At dinner that night, Professor Flitwick nearly gave the game away.

He, with his unique perspective, found a piece of bread that Severus, being much taller, had missed. He held it up, squinting though his spectacles. "The house-elves didn't do so well in here."

Severus and Hermione immediately bent their heads to their meals with overly innocent expressions. Minerva smiled. "Must have been Peeves," she said.

"Peeves?" Professor Sinistra asked, knitting her brow. "Doesn't he usually wait until the students get here?"

Hermione risked a look at Severus. A muscle was working in his jaw as if he, too, was chewing on the inside of his cheek.

"Typically, yes," Minerva said. "Something's set him off early this term, but I can't imagine what that could be." She and Madam Pomfrey exchanged looks. "Any ideas, Severus?" she asked.

Severus choked on his pumpkin juice, but recovered admirably. "He was remarkably restrained last term. Perhaps he has excess energy to disburse."

Minerva peered at him over the top of her glasses. "You know, your grey hair has taken on a decidedly blue tint. Joined the 'Blue Rinse Brigade,' have we?"

He looked coldly at the headmistress. "No, Minerva."

She just looked at him, eyebrows raised with interest.

"It would appear that Peeves isn't the only one with an excess of energy, Headmistress," Severus said in a jaded tone.

"I'm merely curious, Severus," Minerva said. By the sound of her voice, Hermione would have thought that her feelings were hurt by Snape's retort, but the expression in McGonagall's eyes was merry.

Hermione felt a sudden wrench of embarrassment; he hadn't been flirting with her last night at all. That was simply the way he spoke to all of his colleagues, even Minerva. A flush started at her cheek and radiated out until she was pink from forehead to sternum.

"You should check your curiosity, Minerva. Wouldn't want it to be the death of you," he said evenly, eyes narrowed.

* * *

A/N:Thanks to the flist at lj for early reading and feedback.

And an especially big thanks for selened. A good beta doesn't just watch out for punctuation and misuse of British terms. This chapter especially has benefited from selened's suggestions of places where I might amp up the UST, resulting in a much richer chapter than it was before. Her assistance, as always, is invaluable.


	5. Chapter 5

**Becoming**

Chapter Five  
by snarkypants

The students, second years and older, were in their places and it was time for the professors and staff to proceed to the head of the Great Hall. They did so swiftly and silently while the students stood at their tables.

She saw Blithe first; she grinned hugely at her mother. Hermione winked and smiled with the corner of her mouth. One down.

Then she spotted Fabian and something inside of her relaxed. _They're both here, they're both fine_. Fabian looked cross and tired, but he nodded at her and smiled wryly. She wrinkled her nose, wiggling it, and he appeared to chuckle silently before he looked away.

She had taken especial care when dressing tonight, choosing her brown robes so neither of her children could accuse her of House (and therefore, _child_) favouritism for the start-of-year feast.

Fabian was a Ravenclaw and proud of it, while his cousin-and-best-friend Jim-James and his sister Blithe were both equally proud Gryffindors. They (more or less) declared détente during school holidays although Hermione had long suspected that the start of a new school year was difficult for her son.

She took her place on the dais and after the teachers sat down Minerva stood to welcome the returning students. She recognised the prefects and the Head Boy and Girl (to enthusiastic applause from the Hufflepuff table, as both came from their House) and then a hush fell over the Great Hall as Professor Snape led the terrified-looking first years to their Sorting.

A few first years were the children of friends; Dean Thomas' daughter Sylvie was now a Gryffindor and Susan Bones-Somethingorother's son Julian was a surprise Slytherin.

Then it was time for announcements. The Forbidden Forest was still forbidden. Professor Binns' classroom had finally been de-swamped and History of Magic classes would take place as per usual (_groans_). Anyone found in possession of a Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes product on school grounds would face expulsion. "That goes for _you_, too, Mr Weasley," Minerva said, giving a hard look at Fred's only child, a seventh year named Wulfric whose customary expression was one of angelic innocence. Hermione knew her nephew well enough to see through _that_ and she imagined that Minerva did as well.

"Finally, before we enjoy our meals, you will remember that Professor Vector retired at the end of the last term so there is a new professor among us. Please welcome our new Arithmancy teacher, Professor Hermione Weasley. Professor Weasley is a recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class, for her actions during the Voldemort war. She has extensive knowledge and training in the Arithmantic arts and you will benefit a great deal from her instruction." Hermione stood and the students dutifully applauded.

"As there are no more Weasleys in the announcements we may now enjoy our meal," Minerva said and waved her wand at the tables. The first years gasped in awe as a splendid feast blossomed from the once-barren surfaces.

* * *

After the feast, Hermione had a few moments to see her children before they went to their Houses.

Blithe hugged her eagerly, bouncing and quivering like a Golden Retriever puppy. "Oh, Mum, I've so much to tell you! I'm trying out for Quidditch this year and Ivy Hodgepile told me on the train that— ," she broke off and looked around suspiciously before standing on tiptoe and whispering loudly in Hermione's ear. "That Alex Fraser _fancies_ me!"

"Really?" Hermione asked, eyebrows raised. "Which one is he?"

Blithe shot her a withering look. "I'm not going to just point him out to you, Mum. That would be _obvious_."

"Very well. I'll just ask Fabian to point him out to me…"

Blithe's jaw dropped in horror. "You wouldn't!"

"No, I wouldn't; what year is he in? Which house?"

"He's a fourth year; in Gryffindor, of course."

"You _can_ be friends with someone who isn't a Gryffindor, Blithe; you can even be _related_ to one," Hermione said, with a significant look.

"Fabe's a freak of nature, Mum. You should have seen him on the train. Touchy as a Blast-Ended Skrewt. I thought he was going to smack Michael Davies."

"He and Michael never have got on well."

"It's just because Michael and Jim-James are friends during the school year and Fabian's jealous," Blithe said, rolling her eyes.

"That's enough, Blithe. It's hard on him with you and Jim-James in a different House."

Blithe shrugged, unconvinced. "Well. I've got to get to my room; those hosebeasts will get all the best spots if I don't hurry." She sprang up and planted a sloppy kiss on her mother's cheek. "'Night, Mum!" she sang, and fairly bounced her way out of the Hall.

Hermione walked over to where Fabian was standing with his hands in his pockets.

"What's _she_ so happy about?" he asked glumly.

"Someone told her a boy likes her and, no, I won't tell you who."

He made a face. "Who'd like _that_?"

"I heard you almost had a fight today on the train."

"Blithe is _such_ a liar, Mum."

"Is Michael Davies still giving you trouble?"

"Nothing I can't handle," he said stiffly.

"Please be careful, love."

"I am. He's just an arsewipe."

"_Fabian_…"

"Sorry, Mum."

She sighed. "Tomorrow I can show you where my apartment is, in case you need someone to talk to; it's charmed to let you or Blithe in at any time you need me."

"I'm—fine—Mum," he said in an exasperated tone.

"I know, sweetheart; I just wish I could make all this easier for you."

"Well, you can't," he said, shrugging. "I've got to go." He put one arm around her shoulder and squeezed briefly before heading toward the door.

Well. Her children were launched for the year and without any help from her. She felt both sad and relieved at this.

"He'll do fine, Hermione," Professor Flitwick said from behind her. "After the first week or two he settles in quite nicely." He smiled reassuringly. "I'll keep an eye on him and if he's having any unusual difficulty I'll send him your way."

"Thank you, Filius," she said, still watching her son's retreating back as he went down the corridor.

* * *

Her first day of classes started well enough. The fourth years knew something of Arithmancy and her review of subject fundamentals was met mostly with nods rather than blank looks.

As luck would have it, Alex Fraser, the alleged daughter-fancier, was in the class and she would be able to observe him at work, although she planned to reserve judgment for several weeks.

The seventh years, on the other hand… they were difficult. Her chalk was charmed to write mildly naughty nicknames for body parts when she copied equations onto the board. When rune representing 'time' came out as 'bum,' she stopped writing and turned around to face the class.

"What is the meaning of this?" she asked coldly, looking directly at her nephew Wulfric. His expression was bland as butter.

"I'm sorry Professor… I don't—," he said, before he was cut off.

"Mr Weasley, I sincerely hope that you _don't_ know." She raised her wand and cast _Finite Incantatem_ on the chalk.

She erased 'bum,' and began to write the equation. The rune for 'time' came out as an even naughtier word. The students sniggered behind her back.

"Right. Who is responsible for this?" The students kept their eyes on their books. "No one willing to come forward? Very well, then. Fifty points from Gryffindor." The Gryffindors groaned. "Fifty points from Slytherin." The Slytherins hissed in outrage. "Fifty points from Ravenclaw." The Ravenclaws muttered. "Fifty points from Hufflepuff." The Hufflepuffs shook their heads despairingly.

"Uh, Professor?" one of the Slytherin students said. "It was Weasley who did it, ma'am." A few Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs nodded agreement.

"Liar!" Wulfric cried in outrage.

"As if Wulfie'd do that to his own aunt," one of the Gryffindor girls said; she sat dangerously close to Wulfric, and Hermione surmised she was his girlfriend.

"Yeah," Wulfric said, his expression beatific.

"Thank you for telling me, Mr—"

"Snelling, ma'am," he said.

"Thank you, Mr Snelling. Twenty-five points to Slytherin. And another twenty-five points _from_ Gryffindor."

The Slytherins looked pleased, but not completely; they were still down twenty-five points on their first day. The Gryffindors were furious. The Ravenclaws and the Hufflepuffs merely looked mutinous.

"If someone had told me this at the start of class, only one House would have lost points. There's no honour in keeping a stupid secret." She looked sternly at the class; they didn't meet her gaze. "This is your one and only warning. If I have further outbursts from this class, you will lose your Hogsmeade privileges for the term, in addition to gaining weekend detentions with Mr Filch. Have I made myself clear?"

The students grumbled.

"_Have_ I made myself clear?" she barked like a Muggle military drill sergeant. The students jumped, and replied, "Yes, ma'am," in sulky voices.

"As you are all so _competent_ in Arithmancy that you can indulge in practical jokes, you can do your assignment without benefit of the lecture. Books out; read pages fifteen through thirty-five, and complete the exercises on pages thirty-six through forty-five. Due first thing Friday."

A groan went up from the class; it was quickly stifled when Hermione raised eyebrows at them. Within moments the class was silently reading and taking notes.

* * *

Word got round the school quickly. She might look nice, but Weasley was almost as horrid as Snape.

By Friday, she had taught all of her classes at least once, save the third years that would come on Monday. They were all sullen and uncommunicative, but they weren't causing trouble.

Wulfric had tried to wheedle points out of her the day after his prank cost Gryffindor seventy-five points. He met her in her office, calling her 'Auntie Hermione' and oozing obsequiousness.

"Mr Weasley, your 'Auntie Hermione' is at the Burrow; would you care to join her for a few weeks? During the school term I am Professor Weasley. Remember that." She dismissed him briskly and went back to marking the fourth years' papers.

* * *

On Friday it happened. She knew it would, sooner or later, although she would have preferred later.

She deducted points from one of her children.

It was Blithe, predictably enough. Urged on by Ivy Hodgepile she cast a Bat-Bogey Hex on Serena Nguyen, Ivy's rival for the affections of Brian Cheswick, a Hufflepuff fifth year. Hermione saw Blithe cast the hex; she took twenty-five points and cancelled Blithe's first Hogsmeade visit in October.

"But _Muuuuum_," Blithe whined.

"Would you like a detention on top of everything else?" Hermione asked.

"No, _ma'am_," Blithe said, voice dripping with resentment. As soon as Hermione's back was turned she heard her daughter mutter, "_Bitch_."

Hermione turned around slowly, watching Blithe's expression shift from angry to frightened in mere seconds. "Detention at seven o'clock with Mr Filch, Miss Weasley. Wear old clothing."

* * *

Late Friday afternoon, Hermione all but dragged herself to the sentinel that guarded Minerva's office. "Caber toss," she said, and the sentry rotated, revealing a spiral staircase. She climbed and emerged in a small waiting room; the door to Minerva's office was closed and there was no response when she knocked.

"Fine, I'll wait," she said to herself and sat down on of the comfortable-looking sofas in the vestibule. Surely the sofas were new; she didn't remember seeing furniture on the few occasions she had come to Professor Dumbledore's office.

Her hands were cold as usual and she pressed the chilly pads of her thumbs against her closed eyelids. She was tired and shaky and tears had been threatening every time she stopped her work long enough to reflect.

_This is much harder than I thought it would be_. A (pitiful, self-pitying) tear leaked from the corner of her eye and she swiped furiously at it.

Five minutes later the tears were coming freely and she was hardly even bothering to swab them away. She was slumped in the corner of the sofa, covering her damp, streaky face with one hand.

"Are you unwell?" Snape's voice, seemingly coming from nowhere, made her jump. Her hands flew to wipe tears from her cheeks and jaw.

"No… (_sniffle_)… Just feeling rather inadequate and sorry for myself." She dried her hands on her robes.

"Ah. Well, don't let me stop you," he said.

She gaped at him and one corner of his mouth twitched. In his arms he carried several rolled parchments, tied and sealed with red wax; Minerva's office door swung open as he approached and he disappeared within.

_Did he_ really _tell me to continue feeling inadequate and sorry for myself?_ A giggle burbled up and out of the great well of misery in her chest.

When Snape returned to the waiting room minutes later he found her giggling helplessly even as fat tears squeezed from between her eyelids and streamed down her face.

"Would you like me to summon Madam Pomfrey? You clearly need some sort of sedation."

She cackled at that, sounding altogether unhinged, and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "At the v-very least, you could lend me your h-handkerchief."

"I _could_," he said smugly. "But I find lessons are best learned when the learner has—"

"Oh, shut up and give me your handkerchief," she snapped, coughing a little as she tried to suppress her giggles.

Eyebrows raised, he extracted a folded square of snowy white linen from inside his robes. "I'm fairly certain it's been laundered within the last few months or so."

"Thank you," she said, taking the spotless cloth from him.

He sat in the sofa opposite her, matching her posture. "I suppose this is the part where I enquire about your mental health and whether you intend to give notice before you leave Hogwarts."

She snorted into the handkerchief.

"Should I take that as 'no,' then? Pity."

"My mental health is as well as it could be," she said. Her voice sounded as if she had a bad head cold. "And I don't intend to leave Hogwarts anytime soon."

"Good. Unless that means you're going to throw yourself from the Astronomy Tower and remain here as a ghost." He shrugged. "In which case, a little notice would be appreciated; paperwork, you know."

She chuckled. "No, I won't subject you to that."

"Excellent."

"I've had the worst week," she said in a flat voice.

"Welcome to my life," he said. "I've actually heard good reports about your teaching."

"You _have_? From _whom_?"

"My students. They said you were impossibly strict and completely biased and unfair."

"Those are hardly good reports," she said, folding her arms across her chest.

"They _were_ good," he said. "You're not afraid of the students and you won't stand any racket from them simply because you're related to at least half of them by blood and/or marriage."

"I didn't think it would be so _combative_."

"If you came in full of cheer and goodwill they would have stomped you flat within two minutes. They wouldn't listen to you and they certainly wouldn't respect you."

"They _don't_ respect me," she said miserably.

"No, they're frightened of you. Which is a bloody good substitute for respect."

She put her face in her hands. "I can't believe I'm taking teaching advice from Severus Snape."

He laughed shortly. "You're not here to be liked, Professor Weasley. You're here to teach. You want to be liked, go work for the WWN as a quiz show presenter."

"You're right," she said, groaning. "I just—"

"You just envisioned swooping in like Mr Chips and Mary Poppins rolled into one and winning their hearts and minds with your brilliance," he said sourly. His tone was much too bitter for him to be speaking solely of Hermione's expectations and she looked up at him curiously. He shrugged. "Let's just say you're not the first new teacher that reality bit in the arse."

She digested this briefly in silence. "So I've got to scare my students from now until I retire from teaching?"

"No," he scoffed. "Just from now until the winter holidays. Then, if you want, you can lighten up on them."

"_You_ never did."

"I never wanted to."

"Oh."

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Thanks to selened for her assistance and advice.


	6. Chapter 6

**Becoming**

Chapter Six  
by snarkypants

Some time later, Professors Weasley and Snape left the Headmistress' office together.

"Thank you for your time, Professor Snape," Hermione said, smiling at Severus. "I just might be able to finish out the term now."

"I have ulterior motives, you know; we have a common enemy." Hermione looked at him with confusion; he loomed over her and said in a stage whisper, "_The students_."

"Ooh, looky," a maliciously gleeful voice said above them and they sprang apart. "Snivellus Snape and the Bucky, Bushy Beaver!"

Hermione gasped in horror and Severus glared at the poltergeist. "I'm sending the Baron after you, Peeves."

Peeves stuck out his tongue at Severus and sang in a voice like a rusty gate:

_"Snivelly Snape and the Bushy Beaver  
Snogged all night, but he had to leave 'er  
She thinks he's dreamy; her eyes deceive 'er  
Snivelly's face looks like a cleaver!"_

He rolled over and over in midair, cackling at his song and slapping himself on the arse before he melted through the wall, still singing, "Snivelly Snape and the Bushy Beaver."

* * *

Michael Davies hid himself when he saw Peeves coming; the poltergeist had been on a tear lately and he had no desire to dodge cat shit or whatever Peeves was using to bombard the unsuspecting tonight. He was right outside the Headmistress' office, hiding behind a convenient tapestry, when Professor Snape and Professor Weasley emerged from the hidden staircase.

He tried to press himself as close to the wall as he could manage and thus avoid detection. Peeves or no Peeves, hiding behind a tapestry would probably raise Snape's ire and Michael could do without a deduction of points tonight.

The professors talked in a friendly enough way and then Snape leaned in close to whisper something in Weasley's ear… and Peeves struck, singing about Snape and a bushy beaver. Professor Weasley went so red that Michael thought the 'beaver' must mean, well, her _beaver_.

Oh, he was going to spew.

But _still_…

* * *

Several of the third year boys liked to gather by the lake on Saturday mornings when the weather was fine. Jim-James usually held court there, as he tended to be their natural leader. He was easygoing and funny, a bit of a show-off, but generally a benevolent despot.

"How'd you get your name, then?" the younger brother of a Gryffindor third year asked. "Your mum and dad didn't name you 'Jim-James.'"

The third years smiled. They'd heard this one before.

Jim-James leaned back casually and laced his fingers together behind his head. "Now that's a story, young – what's your name?" Someone supplied the correct name and he continued. "Well, young Roddy, I got my nickname the year my dad was with the Sweetwater All-Stars. He was doing this Quidditch ambassador thing, going to countries – mainly America – where professional Quidditch wasn't very popular and playing for their teams to raise interest in the sport.

"Now, I was in primary school at the time and I'd hang out at the pitch in the evenings; my mum had just had my little brother, and it was dull as shit at home. I'd go with my dad, and I'd watch them practise. It was _so_ hot in Texas, hotter even than Egypt, or at least I thought so. I'd go to the locker room to get a drink and cool off. And the team would come in—" he said.

"And you'd check out their tackle, eh?" another boy said loudly, and the rest of them laughed raucously (and perhaps a little nervously).

"Piss off, you bastards," Jim-James said genially. "The first time I was in there, one player, this _huge_ Beater, said, 'So what's yer name, kid?' His accent was so thick I couldn't understand him at first, so he said, 'Whadda they cawl ya?'" Jim-James mimicked the beater's drawl perfectly.

"I wanted to be so cool in front of the players even though I was just this little kid. So I shrugged and said, 'They call me Jim, James, whatever.' The beater just laughed. 'Nice ta meetcha, Jim-James,' he said. And it stuck."

He raised his eyebrows and lowered his voice for the punch line. Even though most of the boys had heard the story before, they leaned closer. "And do you know who the beater was?" The older boys grinned. "Tex Deerinwater." The younger boys made a low, respectful noise. "'Course, his real name is Tony, he only got called 'Tex' after he crossed the pond to play for the Cannons."

The group buzzed with tales of famous Quidditch players they had seen or met. Of course, it simply wasn't cool to mention Jim-James' father, although many of them nursed the fervent hope that Jim-James might invite them home over the hols and they'd get to meet Harry Potter in person. He'd see what great fliers they were and put them on a list of players to watch for when they made the house team and they'd end up playing for England…

"Hey, anyone seen Fabian?" Jim-James asked.

* * *

"Oi, Weasley," Michael Davies called after Fabian as he walked toward Jim-James' court; Fabian tensed, but slowed to wait for him. "I may be spending the winter hols at your cousin's place."

"Oh," Fabian said, unimpressed. "Which cousin? I have loads."

"Jim-James, of course."

"Really? You'll be lonely. Last I heard, Jim-James was spending the hols at my grandmother's place."

Davies' mouth tightened before he smiled poisonously. "From what I hear, you could have a new stepfather by the hols, eh?"

"Fuck off, Davies, what're you on about?"

"Your mum's a hot little piece; I heard Snape's giving her _after-hours instruction_. Your dad's only been dead a few months, yeah? _She _sure didn't wait—" He didn't get the rest of the statement out. Fabian punched him in the mouth.

Two fifth year Gryffindors were on Fabian before he could grab Davies by the front of his robes and hit him again; they grabbed him and twisted his arms behind his back. A few Ravenclaws shouted at this treatment, and ran over.

"Oh, shit, Fabian," Jim-James said, jumping up from the grass, running to join his cousin. "Let him go," he ordered authoritatively, and the older boys complied.

"He hit me, for no bloody reason!" Davies shouted thickly, through a cut and swollen mouth. He dabbed blood from his chin with his sleeve.

Fabian charged again. "Take it back, you bastard!" He knocked Davies to the ground.

Jim-James grabbed Fabian from behind, looping his arms under Fabian's arms and locking his hands together behind Fabian's neck. Fabian kicked and writhed, maddened. "Gerroff me!"

"Fabe!" Blithe came running. "Are you crazy?"

Fabian struggled against his cousin's grip. "He—he said—Mum and Snape—I'll kick his arse!"

"What did you say, Davies?" Blithe asked, a dangerous glint in her eye.

"Nothing. Nothing! It was Peeves, he said it."

"Said what, Mike?" Jim-James asked, deceptively calm.

"He said 'Snivelly Snape was snogging the bushy beaver.' It was when they were coming out of McGonagall's office last night."

Blithe landed on Davies' belly with one knee. The boy blanched and gasped as his diaphragm went into temporary paralysis. He flopped on the grass, his mouth working mutely, looking for all the world like an outsize trout.

Jim-James released Fabian and dove for Blithe. He pushed the twins away from Davies, who was clutching his throat and thrashing. "Settle down, Davies. Just got the wind knocked out of you." He knelt next to the boy. "This was just a taster, old son. Repeat any of that bullshit and you'll be wearing your arse as a fetching little hat." He looked up at the gathering swarm of onlookers. "And that goes double for you lot. You got it?"

"I think _we got it_, Mr Potter," Snape said mordantly.

* * *

"What reason would four students have for brawling on the grounds? You do realize that you all face expulsion for this gross misconduct." Severus looked down his nose at them.

"Sir? _ I_ didn't do any brawling, I was _attacked_," Davies said, having recovered the use of his lungs.

"Shut your stupid face or I'll shut it—" Fabian growled.

"Silence, Mr Weasley, and you, too, Mr Davies. You're not helping your case here." He paced behind the four as they stood in his office. "I can't believe I'm about to say this, but as the apparent cool head of reason, Mr Potter, perhaps you would care to explain?"

"Yes, sir," Jim-James said. "Davies made a rude comment about Fabian's mum, sir."

Snape's eyebrows rose, nearly meeting his hairline. "That's _all_?" he asked, now standing in front of Fabian. "You're a _third year_ and this is the first rude comment someone's made about your mother?"

"It wasn't just… it was about…" Jim-James looked down as he stammered.

"Out with it, Potter," Snape bellowed.

"He said that you and Professor Weasley were k-kissing, sir."

Snape recoiled, and rounded on Davies. "What?" Davies had the grace to squirm uncomfortably. "You say you saw _me_ and Professor _Weasley_… where _exactly_ did you see this, Davies?"

"I didn't… Peeves… I _told_ Weasley and he—"

"So you saw… _nothing_, Mr Davies?"

"I just saw you talking, Professor."

"From where did you get the mistaken idea that I was having some sort of _tryst_ with Professor Weasley?"

"Peeves sang a song about you and Professor Weasley snogging, sir."

"Ah. Peeves, the Oracle of Hogwarts, known to all and sundry as a source of unimpeachable information." He glared at Davies. "Fifty points from Gryffindor. In addition, I think that Mr Filch has some paperwork that requires maintenance. Starting tonight after dinner, you have detention every Saturday night until the winter holidays." Davies opened his mouth indignantly and closed it again. "Your Hogsmeade privileges are revoked for the term and tomorrow you will join Mr Potter, Mr Weasley and Miss Weasley in harvesting armadillo bile for the fifth year potions classes. You are dismissed, Davies."

Davies left promptly, before Snape could give him another punishment.

"Mr and Miss Weasley, you have amply defended your mother's reputation, not that she needed it. Twenty points from Ravenclaw; you will lose Hogsmeade privileges for the term and tomorrow you will harvest armadillo bile with Mr Davies. Mr Potter, you appear to have tried to get the situation somewhat under control so your only assignment will be the bile harvesting."

He raised his eyebrows. "Do you have anything to add?" The teenagers shook their heads. "Then leave. Now."

They did.

* * *

Someone knocked tentatively at her door. "Mum," a voice said softly in the corridor.

She lifted the needle from her gramophone. _Am I hearing things?_ she wondered. The twins hadn't been to visit her since she showed them where she was housed.

"Enter," she said, and the door swung open.

Her children didn't resemble each other greatly, other than in the shapes of their eyes and the length of their noses. Blithe's colouring was Weasleyesque, albeit in somewhat darker tones, while Fabian was dark-haired, grey-eyed and olive-skinned, much like Hermione's father. Blithe's features tended to be sharper and finer, and Fabian had the beginnings of a strong chin with a definite cleft.

Since they weren't identical, those instances when they _looked_ like twins came as rather a surprise. It usually happened when they were grieving or ill or angry. Or guilty.

Blithe and Fabian wore identical expressions, and the first thought that sprang to Hermione's mind was _Who died?_ The words died on her lips as she remembered asking the same question to the Gringotts' director on the day Ron died. Her eyes filled with tears, and she turned her head, faking a brief coughing fit to cover both her aborted question and her expression.

"Sorry about that," she said, smiling brightly at them. "What's wrong?"

"Mum," Fabian said, "we've got something to tell you."

"Oh, God, you're not expelled, are you? We've barely started the term."

Blithe snorted, and Fabian swiftly elbowed her in the side. "Ow!" She rubbed her ribs, glaring at her brother. "Fabian got in a fight this afternoon."

"Oh, sure; _you_ only lost Hogsmeade privileges because you were an innocent bystander."

"What on earth… You were _both_ in a fight?" Hermione asked.

"It wasn't _much_ of a fight, actually," Fabian said, preening a bit.

Blithe snickered. "It really wasn't," she said.

"Explain. Now." Hermione folded her arms across her chest.

Fabian heaved a noisy sigh. "Well. You know Michael Davies?" He looked to his mother for confirmation; Hermione nodded impatiently. "He said some rude things, and I punched him in the mouth." He shrugged and was silent.

"… And?"

"Dad would've been so proud, Mum. I followed through and everything, just like he taught me."

Hermione's eyebrows nearly reached her hairline. "The _fight_, Fabian."

"Yeah. Well. So Michael was on the ground, and Jim-James was holding me back, and Blithe—"

"—I came to see what was going on, and Michael told us what he said to Fabian, and I jumped on him and knocked the wind out of him," Blithe said. At Hermione's alarmed expression, she continued, "He's all right, Mum. More startled than anything; no broken bones."

"More's the pity," Fabian muttered.

"Too right," his sister agreed _sotto voce_.

"So, based on Michael Davies making one rude comment, the two of you _attacked_ him?"

The twins exchanged those guilty looks again. "We haven't told you what he said yet," Fabian said, averting his eyes.

"We wanted to tell you, because the whole school will know—" Blithe began.

"—And we wanted you to hear it from us first," Fabian said.

"Does that mean that his comments were about me? Oh, dear, what was it?" Hermione smiled with amusement; she had expected this as a teacher at her children's school. "That I'm fat, I'm ugly, I wear Army boots, I ride a vacuum cleaner, what?"

Blithe closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "PeevestoldhimyouandSnapewerekissing."

"Peeves… what, exactly?"

"He said you and Snape were kissing," Fabian said, his mouth pinched with anger.

Hermione's jaw worked soundlessly for a moment. "Michael said that, did he?" She laughed shortly. "How interesting."

"I just wanted to shut him up, Mum, honest. He said that Snape was giving you 'after hours instruction,'" Fabian said. "He said you were a 'hot little piece,' what with Dad not even dead a year."

"He said _what_?" Blithe shrieked. "I didn't hear that part. _Ooh_, I should have landed on his bollocks. What a wanker!" Her gaze cut reflexively toward her mother, who didn't even blink at the epithet. "Mum, you okay?"

"I'm fine, sweetheart," Hermione answered automatically. "Are you… worried about what he said?"

"Not really; Snape said it—"

"_Snape_ was there?" Hermione asked.

"He stopped the fight," Fabian said. "Blithe and I can't go to Hogsmeade for the entire term, and we have a detention with Professor Cherrington in Potions tomorrow."

"But Michael has detention with Filch every Saturday until end of term, _plus_ no Hogsmeade, _plus_ Potions detention." Blithe smiled a little smugly. "Snape was angrier about the gossiping than the fighting."

"_Professor_ Snape, Blithe."

_That_ was more like the mother Blithe knew. She sighed in relief, but tried to make it sound huffy.

"Let me tell you what Peeves saw," Hermione said. "We were having a conference in Headmistress McGonagall's office, and Professor Snape and I left together. Peeves saw us talking in the corridor and decided to amuse himself at our expense. That's all there was to it."

The twins nodded at one another, satisfied with her answer. "I thought it must be something like that," Fabian said. "I mean, you're _old_, but Snape's—" Hermione raised her eyebrow. "—_Professor_ Snape's _Jurassic_."

Blithe laughed. "And surly. I'll bet if you didn't kiss him right, he'd take House Points." She affected a shrill soprano. "'But Snapey-darling,' you'd say, 'I left school forty years ago!'"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "_Professor_ Snape to you, brat, and I left school _twenty_ years ago."

Blithe shrugged, weighing the air with her hands in a 'six of one, half-dozen of another' gesture.

"Although I bet they'd have a lot in common," Fabian said, snickering. "Remember how tough she was when she taught us our primary school lessons?"

"My hand _still_ cramps up when I think about it. Day after day of nothing but pot hooks and latches, pot hooks and latches—"

"Enough, both of you," Hermione said sternly, chuckling despite herself. "Perhaps you'd both like to live with your Aunt Fleur for the summer, while I take myself off to Greece to loll about in the surf with a handsome young waiter."

Fabian flushed; ever since his pre-teen years, being around his Aunt Fleur was a painful and embarrassing experience. He didn't have his uncles' years of experience at dealing with the part-Veela; furthermore he was plagued by a painful sense of guilt at ogling his _aunt_, for heaven's sake.

Blithe narrowed her eyes; she, on the other hand, considered her Aunt Fleur a royal pain in the arse. Blithe had spent a weekend with her older cousins at Bill and Fleur's a few years ago, and came home seething. She ruthlessly mimicked her aunt: "'Ze young ladies, zey do not leave ze bedroom before ze hair, ze makeup, ze clothes, is _parfait, parfait, parfait_.' I thought she was talking about pudding." At the time, Blithe had been carrying a few extra kilos of puppy fat, and her aunt told her that she should perhaps concentrate on '_looking_ parfait, not eating it, _non?_'

"Oh, no, Mum, not Aunt Fleur. We'll behave," Blithe said, groaning. Fabian nodded emphatically. "I'm so glad Mum and Dad didn't send us to Beauxbatons; imagine an entire country full of _Fleur_," Blithe added, making her aunt's name sound like gagging.

It was on the tip of Hermione's tongue to call her sister-in-law "Phlegm." She stopped herself, knowing that if Blithe caught wind of the epithet Christmas could be awkward indeed.

"Most people in France are decent sorts, just like most people in Egypt," she said. "Your Aunt Fleur is… special," she said.

"Especially gitty, you mean," Blithe said.

Hermione shrugged.

Fabian cleared his throat. "Well, Mum, that's all we wanted to tell you. I've got to wash up before dinner." He'd got grass stains on his trousers and had lost a button during the struggle with the Gryffindors and with Jim-James.

"Um, yeah, you go ahead, Fabe. I'll see you in the Hall."

Fabian raised his eyebrows at his sister, but kissed their mother good-bye and left the room. When the door was closed, Blithe looked up at her mother.

"Mum, I'm sorry about yesterday. I didn't mean it."

Hermione nodded. "Which part didn't you mean, the hex, or calling a professor a bitch?"

"Neither, really, but mostly you." She chewed on her lip. "I'm really sorry."

"Blithe, would you call Professor McGonagall a bitch, or Professor Cherrington a prick?"

"No," the girl said miserably.

"You presumed on our relationship, Blithe, and if you do it again, I'll fight back in the same way." Blithe looked up at her, brow creased with confusion. "I'll embarrass you horribly in front of your friends _and_ your enemies, because I know exactly how to do it."

Blithe's face was bright red, and she bit her lip. "I guess I'd deserve that."

"You can call me a bitch all you want, but you'd better not do it where _I_ can hear you, understood?"

"Yes, Mum," Blithe said meekly.

"And about the hex… it's interesting that Ivy escaped as soon as I showed up, isn't it?"

Blithe scowled; she hadn't thought about it like that.

"By your report, she put you up to it, but she didn't stick around to share the blame with you."

"So you're going to give her detention, too?" Blithe asked, hope and dread warring for supremacy on her face.

Hermione shook her head slowly. "No," she said.

Blithe's mouth contorted with outrage. "That is _so_ unfair."

"It probably is. But I won't punish her for taking advantage of you. This was a relatively harmless incident, although poor Serena was mortified; her blouse was rather transparent when drenched with bat bogeys." Hermione sighed. "Blithe, if you're satisfied to be Ivy's hatchet man and take the blame for it, that's your affair." She brushed Blithe's bangs away from her eyes. "I think you're better than that, though. If you're _not_ satisfied with it, then it's up for you to change it."

Blithe nodded unhappily.

Hermione hugged her and kissed the top of her head. "Off you go, then. It's almost time for dinner."

Blithe paused near the door, before she ran back to hug her mother tightly. "I'm sorry, Mummy," she whispered brokenly.

"It's all right, sweetheart," Hermione said, holding her daughter and stroking her thick russet hair.

* * *

Hermione sat with her back against the rooftop greenhouse, watching the sunset; even in mid-September, the weather was fine enough for her to sit outside and drink a few glasses of wine for her birthday with no more outerwear than a crocheted shawl.

Her second and third weeks of classes had proceeded much more smoothly than the first, and she was much more at ease than she had been two weeks previously. The scandal the twins feared never materialised; most of the students thought that the 'old man' couldn't pull a pretty young widow, no matter how lonely and isolated she might be.

The young widow in question was sipping from her glass and enjoying the show of lights flickering to life in the castle and in Hogsmeade when she heard the door open.

"Who's out there?" a baritone voice barked.

"Hello, Professor Snape. It's I, Hermione."

He looked around the side of the greenhouse. "What on earth are you doing out here? I heard something; thought I'd be catching some students at necking."

"Sorry to disappoint," she said, saluting him with her glass.

"I'll leave you to it, then," he said, turning to leave.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, join me. This lovely bottle of Rioja will go to waste." She transfigured a stone into another glass, and he shrugged, sitting next to her on the flagstones.

"What's the occasion?" he asked.

"It's my birthday," she said.

"Explaining the plague of owls in the Hall," he said, raising his glass to her in silent tribute. "Made a good haul, did you?"

"Molly made this for me," she said, holding up one corner of her shawl.

"The colour choice is rather restrained for Molly."

She chuckled. "Isn't it? I gushed endlessly over some black cashmere yarn when we were out shopping and told her I'd just _love_ to have a shawl made of it. She probably thinks it's dull as dishwater, but it suits me better than her favourite colours."

"Is the wine a gift, too?"

Hermione nodded. "Harry and Ginny. It arrived on the Express, though, not by owl. They like to pick up a case of the local vintage wherever they are and send it on to me. This season they're in Spain if you hadn't guessed." She took another drink. "The twins gave me some books from my wish list at Flourish and Blotts."

"Sensible of them."

"That was probably Molly's influence; I've dragged them through so many booksellers over the years they'd never willingly darken Flourish and Blotts' door."

He drank deeply; he'd had a long week. "I understand naming your son Fabian; I knew of the Prewetts. But where did you get 'Blithe?'"

Hermione laughed. "Wishful thinking. She was a dreadfully cranky baby and we hoped that the name might influence her. It didn't work; Molly still says that she's 'Blithe by name, but not by nature.'" She took a sip of her wine. "Blithe doesn't experience anything by half measures."

"I can attest to that," he said and didn't say anything more, which was probably for the best.

"Fabian, on the other hand, is the one I worry about. There's always a lot going on in his head and all of it complicated." Her expression was distant. "He's a really good kid, _too_ good, sometimes. Ron was much better with him than I am; perhaps we're too much alike."

She laughed shortly and took another sip of wine. "What a busman's holiday for you, hmm? You get away from your students for one evening and spend the whole time talking about students."

He shrugged carelessly. "Either here or in the staff room. You'll find that we gossip about our students almost as much as the students gossip about us."

"Oh, surely _you_ don't have to worry about that much; you're _safe_…" she began, but her voice faded away as his expression grew thunderous.

"_Safe_. You think I'm _safe_?" His lip curled and he looked away from her.

"Not in that… I… I just—" she said, stammering; he cut her off.

"Let me be clear on this, _Professor_ Weasley. Even if I were unfortunate enough to be your friend, I would not be your personal _eunuch_. Whatever else, I am first and foremost a man."

She trembled beside him, blushing and casting her eyes down demurely and he felt the fierce thrill of his sexual power. Perhaps it was disused and a bit rusty about the edges, but it was still there.

She swallowed. "I didn't mean to insult you. I trust you, but I don't think that you're remotely harmless or powerless."

He leaned in closely, so closely that he could feel her exhaled breaths against his jaw. "What _did_ you mean, then?" She looked up at him in alarm and he smirked. "I don't like the answers _I'm_ coming up with, Professor." His mouth grazed the lobe of her ear. "I'm safe because… I'm a 'greasy git' and no woman will look twice at me?" He over-pronounced the 't' in 'git', and the sharply aspirated sound popped in her ear, making her jump.

"_Severus_…"

"I'm safe because… I'm an asexual overgrown bat?" He stroked the fabric over her hip in small, ticklish circles; she twitched as if she didn't know whether to lean into his caress or scoot away from it.

She closed her eyes and shuddered. "No," she murmured.

"Let me guess… you're going to create a charitable society to promote my welfare…" He spoke with his lips brushing the tender underside of her jaw.

"You're such a prat," she whispered.

"I know," he said.

* * *

God, she missed kissing. The sweetly foreign taste of a man's mouth, the melting feeling of warm, moist lips pressed to hers, the rasp of beard or stubble against smooth skin. Kissing a man in a sexual way as opposed to that puckered-lipped, funereal cheek-kissing way that shouldn't be called 'kissing.'

This wasn't like her first kiss as a tremulous fifteen year old when she didn't know to angle her face just _so_ to free her nose from Viktor's smothering cheek, didn't know what to do with his tongue in her mouth. It wasn't even like her first kiss with Ron. Ron's first kiss had made her want more and more and more even though she hadn't known what that _more_ would be like.

With _this_ first, she had behind her many pleasurable and varied years of experience at kissing, at lovemaking, at _fucking_. She had thought that wonder and delight at a mere kiss were behind her, too. She could be surprisingly content if this were the sum total of it, she thought, even as her nipples hardened and her quim throbbed with desire and foreknowledge of _more_.

Her arms hung limply around his neck, forgotten, as he moulded her mouth with his own, one arm tightly around her waist, his other hand twined in her hair. He sucked and supped at her lips, nibbling the underside of her upper lip, pressing her lower lip between his lips and drawing it out slowly with the faintest scrape of teeth.

He released her and she wobbled a little, dazed. She couldn't breathe. She was going to die of suffocation right there with that vapid, star-struck look on her face. He was so close that she could feel warmth radiating from him, could smell the honey-scented Rioja on his breath.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she said, her voice flat. "I'm sorry, Pr—Severus. I'm… I'm…" She shook her hands out so they dangled from her wrists. "I'm mangling this, is what."

She saw the exact moment her words penetrated. He pulled away from her and rose to his feet. His expression was shuttered, his posture rigid. She stood, putting her hand on his forearm. "No, not like you think."

"How do you know what I think?" he asked repressively.

"I _don't_ know! I don't _know_. I know what _I'd_ think, if you just said that to me."

"What would you think?"

"I'd think you weren't interested, that I'd read it wrong." She pushed her hair back from her face with an impatient gesture. "I haven't kissed anyone other than Ron Weasley since I was seventeen; I haven't wanted to. And I don't…" He drew back, and tried to pull his arm free, but she wrapped her other arm around him, like an especially stubborn Devil's Snare. "I don't know if I'm brave enough. To start something _else_ that's new. Right now. That's all."

His expression softened somehow, and he nodded. "That's… understandable."

"I'm not—I miss—it's so—_oh_!" she cried in frustration. "I want to do the right thing for everyone. I can't bear to think of getting this wrong."

"Perhaps you think too much," he said.

"I know I do, but—" she began, but her voice died in her throat as he moved closer to her. She looked up at him, moistening her lips, swallowing nervously.

He took her hand between his own and easily peeled open her clenched fist. His black gaze burned into hers as he raised her hand to his mouth and kissed her moist palm. He curled her fingers back over his kiss, as if giving it to her for safekeeping.

Releasing her hand, he took his wineglass and raised it. "To bravery," he said, and bolted the last half-inch of wine.

"Bravery," she echoed, although her glass was empty.

"Please excuse me; I need to check on my students before retiring," he said formally.

"Yes, of course," she replied, an automaton of herself, and he left her standing there watching him retreat.

* * *

A/N: Why is this chapter much longer than the others? Thank my beta, selened, who prompted me with some places where I could amp up the drama.

The bit about professional Quidditch in the US: this came from a year-old discussion on the Sycophant Hex Forum, where a few of us tried to visualize an American Magical World. I theorized that, like soccer, Quidditch would be very popular as a children's sport, but not very popular as a professional sport (the Salem Academy's presence at the Quidditch World Cup notwithstanding).

The name 'Deerinwater' is a not-uncommon Texas and Oklahoma name; it very likely has its roots in Native American culture, although I must plead ignorance as to the specifics. I chose it because it sounds exotically Texan and very possibly magical. Go Sweetwater All-Stars! Boo, Harry, for luring away their greatest-ever Beater!

'Pot hooks and latches' is an old-fashioned British method of teaching small children how to write the alphabet. I expect that Hermione researched traditional Wizard home-schooling techniques, rather than relying solely upon Muggle primary school education techniques.

Thanks for reading and reviewing!


	7. Chapter 7

**Becoming**

Chapter Seven

by snarkypants

September drifted into October and the weather grew colder. The third years (save three) began to buzz with excitement over their upcoming Hogsmeade trip.

Major controversy had erupted when Jim-James was chosen for the Quidditch team and Blithe wasn't. The team captain said publicly (and stupidly) that Blithe was a good enough player, but there were entirely too many Weasleys on the team already.

Jim-James and Wulfric resigned their positions in solidarity with their cousin, although knowing her nephews as Hermione did, she suspected that they had some sort of plan for bringing the team around to their side.

She was particularly glad she had been pardoned from duty as Head of House for a few years. Between the escalating Cold War with Michael Davies and Gryffindor's abysmal showing in practice, none of the Weasleys was much in favour at the moment.

Fabian was made captain of the Gobstones team and, according to Filius, was settling in to his routine, to Hermione's intense relief.

Hermione's students were responding well. The Slytherins were so pleased that Weasleys had sunk Gryffindor's Quidditch hopes for the season that they were ostentatiously friendly to anyone claiming the slightest connection to the family. With the Weasleys in full 'circle the wagons' mode, Wulfric made a 180-degree turn in his classroom demeanour; he was now the discipline enforcer for the seventh year class. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs seemed content merely to learn and were therefore largely unaffected by the dramatics.

She was coming to know her former professors as colleagues; Professor Sinistra insisted that Hermione call her 'Nancy' and they frequently sat together at dinner. Ancient Madam Pince unbent enough to allow Hermione to scratch her cat behind the ears. Professor Flitwick kept her aware of Fabian's progress without telling her too much and violating Fabian's privacy.

She hadn't spent any time alone with Severus since her birthday. By tacit agreement each seemed to orbit through the other's periphery, rarely speaking. She would admit to feeling a frisson of awareness when he entered the room, a thrill of excitement when she would catch him at watching her. It wasn't a sullen silence; he didn't seem to bear her any ill will for her indecision.

Mostly, the silence between them felt like taking a deep breath before plunging feet first into dark water.

* * *

Hermione was halfway through her fifth year lecture on the problematic behaviour of the rune _ehwaz_ in time calculation when an owl tapped on the window. She excused herself, and retrieved the message.

She kept her face expressionless as she read. "Class dismissed," she said, without looking up.

* * *

That evening, another owl arrived, with a message for the headmistress.

_"Professor McGonagall:_

_"I'll be returning to Hogsmeade via The Three Broomsticks' Floo late tonight; __expect me at about 1 a.m._

_Hermione Weasley  
visiting Royal Marsden Hospital, Surrey"_

Minerva gave the note to Severus and sighed. He quickly scanned the writing.

"She's not Apparating just outside the grounds, then?" He returned the note to Minerva, who folded it carefully.

"She may be too upset to risk it," Minerva said. "_Tsk_, that doesn't sound good."

"I'll meet her in Hogsmeade; she shouldn't walk through the Forest alone at that time of night, particularly if she's distracted," Severus said, looking through a file.

Minerva paused, apparently debating whether to pry. "Severus… is there something between the two of you?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity. Affection for you both."

"Are you asking as my friend of many years or as my employer?"

"I don't think the roles are contradictory in this case."

He folded his arms across his chest, and huffed loudly through his nose. "There is… _something_. I'm not sure what it is yet."

Minerva nodded, digesting this for a few moments. "You deserve some happiness, Severus. I hope that you can find it and keep it." She smiled. "And that comes from my dual role as your friend and your employer."

"Thank you, Minerva," he said.

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you to keep it discreet, though."

* * *

Hermione was quite agitated when he met her in Hogsmeade. She rubbed her arms rapidly over her heavy cloak. "I'm freezing. Hospitals are always so bloody cold. I had two of Rosmerta's toddies and sat in front of her fire for an hour and it didn't do a bit of good."

"I'm impressed that you're still able to _walk_."

"I think she watered them down somewhat; it _is_ a school night."

"Considerate of her."

They walked in silence for several minutes.

"My father's dying." She said it flatly, stating a fact rather than seeking sympathy.

Severus nodded.

"_Stupid_ fucking fags. He wouldn't give them up. I've been after him about it for years, since I was a little girl, and he just _wouldn't_ stop smoking. Padma Patil came in from St. Mungo's for a consult and she said if he'd got the diagnosis six months ago she might have been able to help him." He could see the cords of tension in her throat as she struggled with her grief and rage.

"How long?"

"Weeks, maybe months. Not longer, though. When Ron died, I thought that it must be easier to let go slowly. But what it really means is watching someone die by inches." She made a noise that was somewhere between a howl and a sob, but she wasn't crying. "I just want to _hit_ something. So hard that my arm shatters."

"Hit me."

"What?"

"Hit _me_."

"I can't hit you."

He snorted. "You won't hurt me."

"I might."

He rolled his eyes, and murmured an incantation. "Cushioning charm. Does that make you feel better?"

She shoved at his chest experimentally. "Can you feel that?"

"I can feel your hand, but it doesn't hurt. Now hit me." He shrugged. "Most of my former students would give their eye-teeth for the opportunity; besides, it'll warm you up."

She made a fist and slugged him. When he didn't gasp or recoil or show any sign of distress, she clenched her left hand and hit him on the shoulder. This blow was followed by another right to the chest, and a left to the belly.

She struck at him over and over again, until her eyes filmed over with tears and her breathing stuttered with sobs. Flailing blindly, she lost her balance and stumbled; she landed hard against him, bruising her cheek on his shoulder.

"Easy, then," he murmured, holding her elbows to steady her. "Are you warmer now?"

"What? Oh, yes," she said, sniffling. Hermione flexed her hands, alternately stretching her fingers apart and clenching them into fists.

"Did you hurt yourself?" he asked.

She sucked on a knuckle. "Not as much as I wanted to."

"And do you feel better?"

"Not particularly," she said, a snarl in her voice.

"Good," he said lightly and steered her back toward the path.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"If you felt better after injuring yourself, Minerva would insist on sending you for some psychological vetting, and we would need to find a substitute teacher for a few weeks." He laughed as she shot him an especially venomous look. "Not to mention the fact that you assaulted the deputy headmaster."

"Oh! You _told_ me—" she cried, outraged, before he cut her off.

"I feared for my life, didn't I?" he asked, an unholy light gleaming in his eyes and a smirk lurking about the corners of his mouth.

She stalked off ahead of him, hair flying. Furious didn't even _begin_ to describe her feelings at this point. She could cheerfully _kill_ Severus Snape right now! And to think she had _kissed_ him, the arrogant, unfeeling _wanker_… he couldn't muster up the slightest bit of sympathy…

_You don't want sympathy_, a voice in her head chided her. _That would just make you bawl like an infant. Remember Bill, after Ron died?_ She sniffed indignantly. Bill had oozed sympathy every time he saw her and left her wallowing miserably in tears every time, leading, in part, to a lingering antipathy toward her brother-in-law.

She stopped walking. After a few moments, he caught her up.

"I know what you're doing," she said flatly.

"What is that?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"Being a Slytherin. Not being sympathetic because it would make me feel worse than I already do."

"Perhaps I'm just being an arsehole."

"No. I recognise it now. Sneaky Slytherin tactics." She smiled wryly at him.

He snorted. "I didn't learn it from a Slytherin. He wasn't even a wizard."

"Really?" She cocked her head to the side, still smiling.

"My father. He had a gift for distracting people from their misery, usually by pissing them off."

"Well. It feels much better to get your blood up than to blubber about it; I guess he knew what he was doing."

"Most of the time. He'd usually come home with a black eye or split lip, though." His tone was dry but somehow affectionate.

"Is he still alive?"

"He died when I was fourteen. Emphysema." He met her gaze and held it for a few moments. "He smelt of sawdust and cigarette smoke always. When I was a boy, before I got my Hogwarts letter, I'd spend hours with him while he worked; there was always a fag hanging from the corner of his mouth. Occasionally the ash would drop and set the sawdust to smoking, and he'd put it out, saying, 'Don' tell yer mum, lad.'"

"He was a carpenter?"

"No, a mechanic down the mill; he just liked to build things of an evening. I have a chair and a table of his in my quarters; nothing special, but they're all I have of him."

"I'm sorry," she said and he nodded his acceptance. "He sounds like a lovely person."

He laughed shortly. "I'm not sure 'lovely' is the right word, but he was a good man; I wanted to be just like him."

Her brows went up. "_You_ don't smoke, do you?"

"Gave it up after the war."

"Oh."

He shrugged. "It served its purpose. It was a stress release; damned few safe alternatives at the time."

"I guess I can't begrudge you a few cigarettes, then," she said wryly.

"You don't have the right to begrudge me anything in my private life, Hermione," he said, his gaze locked on the path ahead.

Stung, she looked up at him. "No. I suppose not." She put her hand on his forearm, effectively bringing him to a halt. "Perhaps I'd like to, though. Have that right."

A bemused look crossed his face. "That's a strange thing to want."

"You're absolutely impossible," she snapped. "I'd like to have the right to care about you, to know you."

"_Know_ me? You may _know_ me all you wish," he said, leering.

"I didn't mean the biblical sense, you pillock," she said, scowling.

"My good fortune improves hourly."

"Just… stop it," she said, with an impatient gesture. "I'm being serious and you're mocking me."

"What is it you want? Come out and say it, then."

"You'll make fun of me," she said, nearly shouting now.

"Probably." As she grew louder, he became calmer and quieter. "That's all part of the package, Mrs Weasley. If you can't take ridicule you should look elsewhere."

"Ridicule? From whom? Besides yourself, of course."

"My derision is a drop in the Pensieve to what you'd get from the majority of the Wizarding World."

"That's rubbish and you know it," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Want to find out?" he asked, a purring note of challenge in his voice.

"Do you always do this? Push people away with one hand while pulling them closer with the other?"

He raised her chin with one hand and brought his face alongside hers. He brushed his lips along her jaw line; the hairs of his beard tickled. She shivered; his breath was hot in her ear, making her squirm.

"_Yessss_," he hissed into her ear.

She sighed, relaxing against him. "Mmmm… yes… Wait." She looked up at him. "Were you answering my question?"

He chuckled and nipped briefly at her chin. "You're too quick by half, Mrs Weasley." He put his arms around her under her cloak and pulled her close.

"I'm too tired to fight you, Severus," she said into his robes.

"Then don't," he murmured against her hair.

He was neither as tall nor as robust as Ron, but she could easily rest her head on his shoulder. He smelt of wool and wood smoke and cold air.

"Your hair smells of hospital," he said, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"You say the sweetest things," she replied with a yawn, allowing herself to be rocked.

"On the contrary, I _never_ say sweet things."

She rolled her eyes, chuckling. "You feel good," she said. "I'd love to dance with you."

"Ah, the toddies have finally kicked in; excellent."

"I mean it. I think it would be lovely."

"Pity there's no Yule Ball this year, then."

"There's always the wedding," she said sleepily.

"Ah, wedding?" he asked, not bothering to conceal the worry in his voice.

"George's. Over the holidays," she said. "Didn't you know?"

"If I had time to waste in keeping up with others' mating rituals it wouldn't be George Weasley's," he said dismissively.

"It might serve you to do so," she said tartly.

"Why? A Weasley marrying or reproducing is as inevitable as a Malfoy cheating on his taxes."

She cracked open an eye to look up at him. "I happen to be one of those marrying, reproducing Weasleys, Professor," she said, sniffing.

"Don't remind me," he muttered. He brushed a lock of windblown hair from her face. "We should get moving; it's gone quite late," he said. "I'd offer to carry you, but men my age don't recover from hernias as quickly as we ought."

"Remind me to hex you tomorrow," she said darkly.

"You have my word as a gentleman," he assured her.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for your kind words and reviews! I'm glad you're enjoying the story.

I realized this weekend, during a re-watching of the LOTR movies, that I owe the line about the 'deep breath before the plunge' to Tolkien. If you're going to steal, steal from the best, right?

Special thanks to my beta, selened.


	8. Chapter 8

**Becoming**

Chapter Eight  
by snarkypants

Fabian's hands were jammed deep in his pockets. He leaned against a wall in Hermione's quarters, scowling. Conversely, Blithe sobbed on her mother's shoulder with childlike abandon.

"That's where you went yesterday, then? The hospital?" Fabian asked.

Hermione nodded.

"Why didn't you bring us along?" he asked.

"I didn't want to pull you from class; we'll go see him this weekend."

Fabian made an angry noise in his throat, but that was all.

"H-how do the Muggle Healers know?" Blithe asked, raising her head. "If he went to a Wizard Healer…"

"A Healer friend of mine came from St Mungo's; she said there was nothing she could do."

"Magic _should_ be able to fix it, though." Blithe looked so comically incredulous that Hermione was strangely tempted to laugh.

"It could have, if he'd gone for an examination when he first started feeling poorly. But by the time he went to the doctor it was too late."

"Why would he wait like that? Granddad's not _stupid_," Fabian snarled.

"No, he's not." Hermione swallowed. "He was busy, and I think he was worried about us. He was afraid something was very wrong, and he wanted to put it off for as long as possible."

Blithe erupted with fresh sobs.

"That's brilliant," Fabian said acidly. "So now he's going to die too, just like Dad. That's _bloody_ brilliant. Way to go."

"S-shut up, Fabian! Just shut up," Blithe yelled, her voice muffled by Hermione's robes.

"_Both_ of you shut up," Hermione said, without heat. Surprisingly, they did. "I'm very tired and sad, and I don't want to listen to your bickering."

Fabian muttered, "Sorry, Mum," and Blithe hugged her tightly around the neck.

"When did you get in last night?" Fabian asked.

"Half two." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "It was a long day."

"Oh. Do you, uh, want anything? Like tea, or… or something?" Fabian asked. His voice was low and bordering on resentful; this was his usual tone when being helpful, as if afraid someone would call him a 'mama's boy'.

"No, thank you, sweetheart," Hermione said. "All I want now is a short nap before dinner."

"There's treacle tart for pudding tonight," Blithe said, forcing eagerness and sniffling through the remnants of her tears.

Hermione kissed her daughter's forehead and ruffled her hair, solely for the pleasure of watching Blithe smooth it again.

"We'll leave you alone then," Fabian said. He enfolded his mother in his embrace.

Tears prickled in her eyes; he'd grown so tall lately, and looked more and more like a young man than her little boy. The bones in his wrists had gone all lumpy and mannish, and he had a dusting of dark hair on his upper lip. His build was Ron all over again, but the teenaged Ron would have killed for facial hair that came in brown instead of ginger-gold.

His awkward stringiness, hunched posture and dark, bushy hair brought to mind the mop-topped vultures in the animated version of _The Jungle Book_.

"I'm sorry, Mum," he said gruffly, and kissed her cheek.

"So am I," she said, looking at her children. "You've had a lot thrown at you this year. You've both done so much growing up." She took Blithe's hand and drew her into their circle.

"It's not like we've been fighting dark lords, or anything," Blithe said sourly.

"Thank God," Hermione said.

"Mum, I'd fight scores of Death Eaters if it meant Dad and Granddad were alive and healthy," Blithe said. Fabian nodded emphatically.

"I know," Hermione said. "And _I'm_ really glad that you don't have to." She gave them an extra-tight squeeze and sent them on their way.

* * *

She was tired, so tired that her muscles and bones ached when she lay down. So tired that her legs twitched as she tried to relax.

After forty-five minutes of fruitless attempts at sleep, she sat up abruptly and threw her pillow across the room. The dinner hour was closing in, and she wasn't going to get any rest before the meal.

She didn't even know whether she could do this between rooms at Hogwarts, but…

For the propriety's sake, the quarters for the male staff were generally located on different floors or in different wings altogether from those for the female staff. Hermione hadn't the faintest idea where Severus' rooms were located, and she wasn't about to go up and down the corridors knocking on random doors.

She knelt in front of her fireplace grate and tossed in a handful of Floo powder. "Severus Snape!" she said, sticking her head into the flames.

After an initial moment or two of getting her bearings, she was able to focus on a settee in front of the fire; except for the green upholstery, it was identical to the red one in her quarters. "Professor Snape?" she asked.

No answer.

"Professor?" She tried to peer around the heavy stone of the fireplace surround. There was neither sight nor sound of him. She sighed, and shifted her body so that she might pull herself out of the Floo.

Just as she began to rock back on her heels, he emerged from his en suite lavatory, wrapped in a shabby blue brocade dressing gown. As he walked, drops of water rained from his wet hair.

She didn't mean to do it. But she couldn't stop herself looking at his legs as the fabric billowed with his steps. _Does he own anything that_ doesn't _billow?_ she wondered.

She should pop her head back out of the Floo and pretend she had never tried to find him. He would hear the noise, however, and he must know of some charm that would let him trace the last Floo caller…

He was rather careless with his state of undress in his rooms; he had tied his dressing gown negligently, and it was in danger of flying open in front—_oh!_

She squeezed her eyes shut out of reflex, even as she chided herself for not taking the eyeful. "Pah-professor?" she asked in a shaky voice.

She heard him turn toward the fireplace and curse under his breath. Just as quickly, she heard him turn away. She opened her eyes. He was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone?

She was leaning deeply into her fire, craning her neck to see around his fireplace, when strong hands reached in and grabbed her by the front of her robes. He unceremoniously dragged her through the Floo, and dumped her on the hearth.

"A visitor? What a pleasant surprise," he said conversationally, despite his rapid breathing.

She rolled to her knees. "I'm so sorry," she said, her eyes squeezed shut again.

"Oh, good God, woman, get up," he said; predictably, there was an edge to his voice she hadn't heard in weeks.

"I wanted to talk to you, to say thank you, but I didn't know where your rooms were, and I thought you could direct me here, but I didn't see you, and I was just getting ready to go when you came out of the lavatory and—"

"Stop!" he cried. "Just stop; you're giving me a migraine."

"I'm so sorry; I'll leave now." She rose to her feet and reached for a handful of Floo powder.

"_That_ won't work," he said.

"I'm so sorry," she said again. "I'll check with Poppy to see if there's anything I can bring you for it."

"Not the migraine, the Floo. It won't take you back to your rooms."

"What do you mean?"

"Men can't Floo into women's rooms."

"But I Floo'ed in here."

He sighed, and spoke with elaborate patience. "Women can Floo into men's rooms, but not the other way around."

She goggled at him. "Why ever not?"

"Because women don't tend to spy on men and tumble into their quarters unannounced."

"Well. That's… _stupid_," she said.

"Not to mention demonstrably untrue," he said, indicating her sooty robes.

"I wasn't spying."

"Maybe not, but you took one hell of a tumble."

"I'm _so_ sorry."

"So you've said. Repeatedly," he said. "Could I offer you something? Coffee? Tea?" He pointed at his chest. "Me?"

She squeezed her eyes shut again. "I wanted to talk to you; I thought you could tell me how to get to your rooms. I didn't mean anything else."

"Well, you're here now. What's more, you're stuck here."

She opened her eyes and looked at him. "The door still works, doesn't it?"

"Oh, yes. But for the fact that there's a committee of the school governors in the corridor, debating which structural repairs wizard will get the contract to work at charming this pile of rocks back into shape. Rising damp, you know; there's a leak somewhere." He smiled evilly. "So unless you want to take the 'walk of shame' in front of that bunch of idiots, you're stuck here with me for the nonce; may as well make the best of it, eh? Might have to push on through 'til dawn."

"Until _dawn_?" she said, her voice squeaking.

"You've never worked with a committee before, have you?" he asked, amusing himself hugely. "So, Mrs Weasley, out with it. Or do I have to _Legilimens_ it out of you?"

"That's not a verb," she said loftily. He focused his gaze on her, and she gasped, looking away. "All right! It's just that… I just… I miss… having a close companion. I won't have any more children and I don't need a husband for financial security or social position. My children don't need a stepfather; they have an embarrassment of uncles for male influence if they need it." She swallowed, grimacing as if her throat was dry. "I like you and I'm attracted to you. I don't want anything from you but—" she began, and stopped, scowling.

"Companionship," he supplied. He had an odd look on his face that she didn't know how to interpret. "What do you mean by all of this?" he asked, speaking more slowly than usual.

"I, er… I wanted you to know what I… what my intentions are." She ducked her head, embarrassed.

"Isn't that supposed to be my line?" He wasn't smiling.

"I wanted to put it out in the open, so you wouldn't think I was trying to trick you into anything. I thought you might like to know."

"I don't _put things out in the open_, Hermione. If you expect _quid pro quo_, think again." He paused, cupping her chin in his palm. "You must have led poor Weasley a merry dance, my dear, managing his entire existence while he struggled just to keep up with you."

She recoiled, stung, but he had anticipated this, keeping her in place with an arm around her waist.

"If you want my—" he paused to leer at her; "—_companionship_, it comes with a price."

She restrained the urge to roll her eyes at him, but only just. "Very well, I'll bite. What sort of a—"

He captured her mouth with his own, kissing her ferociously, even as he secured her wrists behind her back with one strong hand.

He broke the kiss, trailing his wet mouth sloppily across her cheek to murmur in her ear; she shuddered with distaste. "This what you wanted? A bit of rough with the Death Eater, with Dumbledore's murderer?" She could feel him raising her robes behind her back; cold air swirled around her legs, and his warm hand gripped her bum.

She bucked against him, trying to free her hands and push him away. "Get—"

"You wouldn't be the first, Mrs Weasley, not by a long chalk."

She raised her foot and ground her boot-heel into his instep; he yelped, releasing her hands and allowing her to regain her balance. She drove her shoulder into his chest, knocking him to the ground; he fell with a grunt.

"Did I hurt you?" she asked.

"No."

She kirtled up her skirts, exposing her ankles, and kicked him in the arse. "How about _now?"_

He hissed in pain, and scooted backwards on his rear end. "_Pax_, woman."

"_Pax_, my aunt Fanny. What in the hell was all that about?"

He rose to his feet more slowly than he might have when she was a schoolgirl, but he was just as infuriatingly poised as she'd ever seen him. "You will find that I am not easily _managed_, Hermione. This will happen in my time, or not at all. If you try to force my hand, I will repay in the same coin."

"But I wasn't—" she began.

"Perhaps I'm showing my age, but it's the man's place to initiate change in a relationship."

"Oh, that's medieval!"

"I'd imagine it goes further back than that."

"Could you possibly _talk_ to me, rather than turning everything into an object lesson?" She raked her hair from her face with an impatient gesture. "Look, it's time for dinner, and I'm hungry. If anything's going to happen 'in your time,' just… send me an owl or something." She turned toward the door.

"Hermione."

She didn't turn to look at him. "_What_?"

"I'm not… pleasant."

That made her turn around, an incredulous look on her face. "I came to that conclusion years ago. What of it?"

"I have moods."

"_Really_?" She laughed shortly. "Severus, I've seen you, warts and all. I like you anyway, although I'm hard pressed to tell you exactly why at the moment."

"Don't try to patch me up," he said sternly.

"No problem."

"I mean it."

"So do I. I'm sorry, Severus, I don't look at you and see a rough diamond in need of just a bit of polish. You're a prickly damned bastard, and instead of liking you I ought to be utterly terrified."

"Oh, bollocks. You were never afraid of me when you were a girl; you thought nothing at all of raiding my potions stores, or of setting my robes on fire. Or of hexing me unconscious, for that matter."

Her mouth twisted in a mocking smile, and she walked languorously to him until she was so close she could feel the stir of his breath in her hair; she looked up through her eyelashes. "Oh, Severus, if you think that's the kind of fear I'm talking about, then perhaps we _should_ do this in your time, after all," she said in a throaty undertone.

She pressed a kiss to his mouth, a quick, sweet blotting of her lips against his, and left the room without a backwards glance.

* * *

Blithe sat in her favourite spot in the Gryffindor common room; she had tucked herself into the corner of an overstuffed sofa, watching the fire rather forlornly. Ivy was working on a 'study project' in the library with her new boyfriend, Brian Cheswick; Blithe suspected that they were studying how long they could sit with their tongues in each others' mouths before dehydration set in.

Ever since she had hexed Serena Nguyen, thereby securing Brian's attention for Ivy, she hadn't been able to speak two words to her best friend. She saw Ivy at meals and just before bed, but she was otherwise alone in their room and between classes.

"Blithe," a male voice said behind her.

Expecting it to be one of her cousins, she asked, "Oh, what?" in a weary voice.

"Is this a bad time?" the boy asked.

Neither Jim-James nor Wulfric had ever asked whether it was a bad time to bother her. She whipped her head around, and saw Alex Fraser standing beside the sofa.

Deep breath. "N-no. Not at all," she said, pasting a vivacious smile to her face. She had practised this particular smile in the mirror a million times before, and, as her mother always said, practice made perfect.

"Can I—?" he asked, pointing at the unoccupied sofa cushion next to her.

"Oh, yes, of course. Please."

He flopped next to her. He didn't say anything, but merely chewed on his lower lip as he gazed thoughtfully into the fire.

"So," Blithe said brightly. _So what? What do I say now?_

"Yeah," Alex said, nodding. That had to be the most fascinating fire in the history of Hogwarts.

"You, um…" Blithe began, but her voice trailed off.

"Are you, uh, I mean, you're _not_ going to Hogsmeade Saturday, right? That's what I heard."

"No," Blithe said.

"I had thought maybe we could, you know, hang out."

Her face fell. "No, I'm not allowed to go for the rest of the term. Sorry," she said with a pained smile.

"No, I meant, _I_ was staying _here_ during the trip."

Confused, Blithe wrinkled her nose. "_Why_?"

Finally, Alex looked up from the fire. He glanced at her, visibly jumping when their gazes met, before looking back into the burning coals. "I was thinking maybe we could hang out." His voice rose, as if he was asking a question, at the end of the sentence.

Understanding dawned, and Blithe gave him a smile she had never practised before. "Oh! That's brilliant! That's just… _ohhhhhh_. Oh, no, Alex, I'm sorry, I can't."

He flushed bright red and scowled at his knees. "Fine. Whatever." He pushed himself up from the sofa.

"No, Alex… it's my granddad. My mum's taking us to see him on Saturday."

"Oh." His expression brightened marginally. "Can't you get out of it?"

* * *

It was Friday afternoon; her last class for the day had left, and Hermione busied herself, not unpleasantly, with tidying the classroom.

The room was still rather austere in terms of décor; she was still struggling with the concept of making the classroom both cosy and businesslike while avoiding obviously Trelawney-esque elements. Which meant that Oriental rugs were right out, even though she had several that would have suited. Aside from a few portraits of 'Great Arithmancers Through the Ages' on the walls, and a large demonstration model of an abacus on a table, there was little ornament, and even less of Hermione's personality, in the room.

She was briskly erasing work from the chalkboard when a shadow crossed her arm.

She jumped and spun around; she hadn't heard anyone enter the room.

Severus Snape was inspecting the portraits. "I like what you've done with the place," he said.

Hermione chortled, holding up her hands in surrender. "I know, I know. I need a little more time; I just can't decide how to make the room more comfortable."

His brow wrinkled. "I _meant_ that I like what you've done with the place. Professor Vector had this classroom filled with rubbish; she let it go quite out of control during her last few years here."

"Do tell," Hermione said dryly. "_I_ cleaned it all out."

Severus shook his head. "She took _most_ of the rubbish with her when she retired," he said. "She left you just a small portion of it. No, I like this. Clean and restful." He indicated one of the portraits with a jerk of his chin. "I also like the portraits. Did you know that this fellow here, this Marcus Princen, was an ancestor of mine?"

"Oh, that one; he came with the room. I think he's spent the last fifty years or so at the bottom of a trunk. He doesn't like me, much," Hermione said. "He speaks Dutch, so I don't understand what he's saying, but he's very passionate about it.

The portrait in question peered down his substantial nose; he wore a tall, arched-brim hat, a Van Dyke beard and a richly laced ruff around his neck. As if on cue, he pointed repeatedly at Hermione while speaking rapidly to Severus, a thunderous expression on his face.

Severus and Hermione just looked at him blankly, and the portrait finally gave up with a long-suffering sigh. Well aware that he had a captive audience, however, he took this as the opportunity to draw a voluptuous female form in the air with his hands. Once the shape was complete, he kissed his fingertips.

"I would guess that Master Princen despises either your Muggle heritage or the fact that a female is teaching Arithmancy, but he approves overall of your feminine attributes."

"Generous of him," Hermione said with a sniff. "You wouldn't care to take old Great-Uncle Marcus to live in your quarters, would you?"

"I think he suits this space quite well," Severus said, an ironic smile twisting the left side of his mouth. Hermione sniffed again.

Further along the wall was an un-charmed photograph portrait of an elderly man in white linen robes, wearing a voluminous white turban. His face was roughly the colour and texture of ancient boot leather; with wrinkles upon wrinkles wreathing his wizened face, he might have been a grotesque but for the gentleness of his expression and the piercing intelligence of his black eyes.

"Who is he?" Severus asked, not taking his eyes from the portrait. "He reminds me…"

"Of Dumbledore?" Hermione said. She met his gaze and smiled shyly at him. "I thought the same thing the moment I met him. He's Professor bin Daoud, my teacher in Egypt."

"He doesn't resemble Albus, not in the particulars, but the _look_ in his eyes is..." He cleared his throat. "It's extraordinary."

He jumped when Hermione slipped her hand into his. He looked at her with haunted eyes, and she put her arms around him, stroking his back and his hair. He held her tightly against him for several minutes.

Even when he released her, he kept his hand on her shoulder. He cleared his throat again. "I think I'd like to meet your professor someday. Does he ever travel?"

"I'm afraid not," Hermione said. "He's far too frail now. And in any case, he wouldn't come to the UK because of the weather and the ban on flying carpets."

He nodded. "Are you almost finished here?"

"Nearly. Why do you ask?"

"I owe you a meal."

"Yes, you do. What did you have in mind?"

"Indian, I thought."

"That would be lovely, but it would have to be takeaway; I'm taking the twins to see my parents tomorrow, and I can't spend all night walking back from Hogsmeade, pleasant though our walk was."

His expression was rather smug as he shook his head. "Dinner will be served in my rooms in two hours. Assuming you know how to find them?"

* * *

Severus mopped up the savoury curry sauce with a bit of Naan. "I was curious; you said that you don't see a diamond in the rough when you look at me. Which begs the question, what, ah, what on earth _do_ you see?"

"_Ohhh_, fishing, are we?" She smiled impishly, wrinkling her nose. "Are you sure you really _want_ to know?" He nodded. "You strike me as being rather like a bezoar, actually. Dark and abrasive, hard to take—"

That startled a chuckle out of him.

"—good to have in a tight spot…"

He barked a laugh at that, and she looked quizzically at him for a second before her unintentional _double entendre_ sank in. She blushed furiously and her lips twitched. "I didn't mean it like _that_!" She was trying valiantly not to laugh, and forced a scowl at him. "You horrid, horrid man," she said.

"I'm just pleased that you didn't say 'intimately acquainted with goats.'"

"Why? Have you got something to hide?"

"Not about goats, I don't," he said, and polished off his bottle of lager with a gulp.

* * *

They had long since adjourned to the settee in front of his fireplace. She sat sideways, reclining against the rolled arm of the seat. "Do you _like_ the way I look?" she asked, her brow furrowed.

He leaned back against the arm on his side of the settee, matching her posture. "_Fishing, are we?_ Isn't it obvious?"

"It's not obvious, not to me."

He blinked. "Well. You're… attractive."

"Oh." She looked a bit crestfallen.

"What?" he asked irritably.

"You don't sound particularly enthused," she said.

"What do you want? Grand declarations? Flowery speeches?" He squinted in confusion. "We wouldn't be having this discussion if I didn't like your looks."

"You haven't _always_ liked my looks," she said in a neutral voice.

"I haven't _always_ known you," he said, rather blankly.

"You said that I was unattractive back when I was in school."

"Did I? I find that hard to believe," he said. "I'm rather more concerned with what students know, or, more frequently, what they _don't_ know."

"The _Densaugeo_ hex? You don't remember that?"

"What about it?"

"Draco Malfoy hit me with that hex, and even as my teeth were growing past my knees you said that you 'saw no difference.'"

"You're worried about _that_?" he asked, and began to laugh.

Her eyes filled up with tears, and she pushed herself up from the settee. "I know it's been more than twenty years, but it was close enough to the truth that it hurt. It still does."

He looked up at her with a quizzical expression. "You're really upset about this."

"Yes!" she shrieked.

"You're upset that I didn't find you sexually attractive when you were thirteen? Of all people, I'd think you would consider that a point in my favour."

"I was _fifteen_. And it wasn't that you didn't find me attractive, it was that you humiliated me in front of the entire year."

He covered his mouth with a cupped hand, and sighed heavily; he rose to his feet, following her around to the back of the settee. "Hermione," he said, rubbing his forehead. "That hex gets thrown at least once a year. The victim always panics." He shrugged. "You know me well enough to know that I'm not going to let them sit and whinge over a harmless, completely _reversible_ hex."

"But why did you say what you did? I had a dreadful overbite, and you—"

"I said it because it amused me," he growled. "I didn't single you out; I say it every year, to any student who takes that hex."

"What?" she asked, surprised.

"Back in _my_ school days, Professor Lydon said it; I'm merely carrying on a school tradition." She looked darkly at him, and he held up his hands, as if defending himself. "I never said I didn't _enjoy_ the tradition. After teaching for 30 years it's one of those little things that makes the job worthwhile."

"How on Earth would _I_ know that it's a 'tradition?' It's not in Hogwarts - A History!"

He inspected the backs of his hands. "If a student is bothered about it, I imagine he asks his parents or his siblings."

She tapped her toe irritably. "I'm _Muggle-born_, Severus. I'm an _only child_."

"Do you _really_ want me to treat my Muggle-born students differently from the rest of them? Answer carefully, now."

She closed her mouth with an audible _pop_ and scowled ferociously at him. "How could you just _assume_ I'd know it was a joke?" she asked after a moment or two.

"I assumed nothing; it was never meant personally." He raised her chin with the tip of his finger. "Hermione. You are a lovely woman. Why would you need _me_ to tell you that?"

She blinked and looked away as her eyes filled with tears again.

"Give me your hand and I'll give you undeniable proof of my interest," he murmured in her ear, and she giggled a little.

And gave him her hand.

* * *

A/N: To those who said that my version of working-class Snape was original, you were right.

It just didn't originate with _me_.

My Severus Snape is built largely on Azazello's foundation, whether she would be able to recognize him or not. Her vision of the character, both pre- and post-HBP, has always resonated with me, and colours my interpretation of the character in canon (to say nothing of the fact that I now picture a bewigged Mark Strong instead of Alan Rickman when writing him—o, the sacrilege! Of course, _you_ may envision whomever you wish.).

Not that she needs _me_ to rec her work, but you can find her Snape stories archived just about everywhere.

Thanks, June, for the inspiration and for the writing.

I'm sorry it's taken so long for me to get back on track with this. I hope you'll think it's been worth the wait. If I'd thrown in the towel and asked my beta, selened, for advice weeks ago, the wait might have been avoided. She asked just the right questions to get me going again. So, hooray for Selene!

And thank you guys for reading and reviewing!


	9. Chapter 9

**Becoming**

Chapter Nine  
by snarkypants

_"Give me your hand and I'll give you undeniable proof of my interest," he murmured in her ear, and she giggled a little. _

_And gave him her hand._

It was one of those moments of crystalline clarity, where the surrounding rumbles and noises of the ancient castle, the combined movements and voices of hundreds of people and creatures, faded away to nothing. Her head filled with only the sounds of the fire, of his breathing, of the pulse of her blood.

Her hand trembled as she reached for him. His larger, warmer hand closed around hers and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He didn't move for several heart-stopping moments; his taut stillness brought to mind a great cat before it leapt on its prey, she thought, shivering. He didn't place her hand squarely over his crotch, as his teasing words had led her to believe.

He tugged her forward until she stood almost literally under his nose. She didn't have to crane her neck to see his face as he watched her intently. His eyes were hidden in shadow and he breathed through parted lips. Just the scent of his breath reminded her of their previous kisses, of the taste of his mouth and the cool, marble smoothness of his teeth against the tip of her tongue.

"Severus," she whispered, the peaked bow of her upper lip brushing his. "I want this. I want _you_."

"You'll have it, then," he murmured. His lips were thinner and firmer than Ron's had been. He steered her backwards, slowly, until the backs of her knees hit the green settee. He supported her down, instead of allowing her to fall; her head was spinning so dizzily she couldn't have caught herself.

She reclined against the rolled arm of the settee, and he stretched himself on top of her, settling in the cradle of her hips and skirts and open thighs. He positioned himself and _pressed_.

She shivered and wriggled closer, rocking her hips against him. He grunted and pressed himself even more firmly against her, and she met him, raising her hips a scant bit to repeat the delicious sensation.

"You like that, don't you?" he asked against her lips.

"Yes," she breathed.

"This is just a taster," he said.

"A taster?"

"Yes; I would rather not be hurried, and as you said, you have an early morning tomorrow."

"Oh, right, I do," she said.

"You don't have the time tonight, but tomorrow… tomorrow you _will_ have time. You will return to my rooms…"

"Ah_mmmm_… no, _you'll_ come to me…"

"Very well, I'll come to you. And then I will undress you…" He mouthed the lobe of her ear.

"_Ooohhhh_… How will you do it?"

"I presume that fasteners of some sort will be involved," he said, almost lazily.

She gave him a _look_. "I meant, in what manner? Slowly?"

He returned her look with an incongruously innocent expression. "Oh, the quicker, the better, I'd say."

"The better for whom?"

"Why, for me, of course. What did you think?"

She laughed. "You horrid man," she said, and she kissed him.

* * *

"Good morning, sweetheart," Hermione said as a scowling Blithe stomped out of the Great Hall after breakfast. "You're in a fine mood today."

"I hate my life," Blithe said in a sullen monotone.

"Would you care to elaborate, or must I guess?"

"They're saying I'm a harbinger of death or a banshee or something," Blithe mumbled.

"Who are 'they'?"

"Fourth year boys." She scowled even more ferociously, but Hermione saw the sheen of tears in her eyes.

"Why would they say that?" Hermione asked, tilting her daughter's down turned face up with a gentle finger under her chin.

"I don't want to talk about it," Blithe said, looking away.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Mum! God!" Blithe shook off her mother's touch and stood at the foot of the stairs with her arms crossed and her shoulders hunched.

Hermione looked briefly heavenward. It seemed that today's outing would be one of _those_.

Fabian ambled in from the Great Hall at about that time. He raised an eyebrow at his sister. "What's _her_ problem?" he asked Hermione.

"She doesn't want to talk about it," Hermione said.

Fabian rolled his eyes. "What's the plan, Mum?"

"We Floo to Grandma and Granddad's house from the Three Broomsticks, and Grandma will give us a lift to the hospital."

Blithe's shoulders heaved and she sighed dramatically.

"Do you have a problem with those arrangements, Blithe?" Hermione asked with an edge to her voice.

"No. But why do we have to _walk_ all the way to Hogsmeade? Can't you Apparate us?" Blithe whined.

"Not from inside the grounds, and not both of you at once, no."

"I could stay behind this time," Blithe suggested, oh-so-helpfully.

Fabian gave his sister an incredulous look. "Not go and see Granddad?" Blithe turned away from him, and he advanced on her for the kill. "Awwww, what's the matter, ickle Bwivey, got a spot or somefing? You're a self-centred tw—"

Hermione smacked both of them on the back of the head, much as Molly still did to Fred and George. "Enough, both of you! Outside."

A few passing second year Ravenclaws giggled.

Blithe looked daggers at her brother and flounced out of the building without giving her mother so much as a passing glance.

Fabian made a grotesque face behind Blithe's back, and the Ravenclaw girls shrieked with giggles. He grinned at them–where _did_ he learn that cocky expression anyway?—and fairly swaggered out the door.

Hermione closed her eyes and counted to ten under her breath.

* * *

"… At least _I'm_ not a poof."

"Go stuff your bra," Fabian snarled. "Oh, whoops, too late!"

Blithe gasped and crossed her arms over her chest. "And what are you looking at my chest for, anyway, perv?"

Fabian snorted. "Kinda hard to miss it; you should have taken the tissues out of the boxes first."

"You… _fairy_!"

"Pirate's dream!"

"Shirt-lifter!"

"Shirt-_stuffe_r!"

"_Bum_-stuffer!" Blithe's lips twitched as she delivered this, which should have been the most crushing of all blows.

Fabian looked at her for just a second too long, and then they both broke down, cackling madly and staggering into each other on the path.

"I am _so_ glad I was an only child," Hermione said to no one in particular.

"Wish _I _was," Blithe said, trying to give her twin a pissed-off look and failing utterly.

"At least you're the only _stupid_ child," Fabian said, smirking. He ducked as Blithe swung at him and missed.

"But I'm _not_ the only one who fancies _boy-ees_," Blithe said in a sing-song voice.

"Oh, shut it, both of you," Hermione said. "I thought you were winding down, for heaven's sake. Blithe, you walk in front." She let her daughter get ten feet in front of her, and then she started walking. "Fabian, you walk behind me." He fell in step about ten feet behind her. "I don't want to hear another word out of either of you, unless it's 'We love you, Mummy.'"

"We love you, Mummy," they both sang dutifully.

* * *

Charles Granger opened his eyes; he had an uncanny ability to look completely alert and awake even though barely awakened from a deep, and in this case, medicated, sleep.

"Where's your mum?" he asked; his voice was slurred and indistinct, which made his watchful expression appear even odder.

"She went to the canteen with the twins; they were starving."

"They've grown so tall since I saw them last," he said. "Blithe is growing into quite the beauty, isn't she?"

"Yes, she is," Hermione said.

"Just like her mother." Her father smiled at her, and patted her hand.

"I'd say that she resembles her grandmothers and her aunt more than she does me," Hermione said with a wry smile.

He nodded. "She's got your nose and your chin, though, and she holds her mouth the same way you do." He yawned.

"Do you want me to leave you alone for a bit?"

"No, sweetheart," he said. "I'm glad that the rest of them are gone for the moment; I've been working on something with my solicitor, and I wanted to tell you about it."

"Oh, Dad, shouldn't you talk about this with Mum?"

"She's well aware of it; this concerns you." He pushed the button to raise the bed so he could sit up and face his daughter. "Your mum will get all of my estate, of course," he said, and Hermione nodded. "But after she's gone, it goes to you and the twins."

"We don't need it, Dad. Tell her to buy a cottage in Italy, or something."

"Oh, she'll have ample funds to enjoy a comfortable retirement. With plenty left for you to inherit. Now, I know that Ron left you well off, and I'm very glad of it. Not least because it means I'll be able to make my own plans for your inheritance without feeling guilty about it.

"All of the assets remaining after your mother dies will be kept in trust for you and your descendants, in a proper bank, in pounds and pence."

Hermione looked at her father quizzically, but he made an impatient gesture, preventing her from speaking.

"Just in case that _world_ of yours goes all to smash again, I want to make sure that you and my grandchildren, or even my great-grandchildren, have a way of getting _out_. Ready, liquid cash, useable anywhere in the world; you won't have to change currency, and you won't have to go to Diagon Alley, or make a large withdrawal from the goblins." He grimaced, and coughed thickly. "Given your family's notoriety, if you get another dark wizard coming after Harry and his lot, you'll be right in the thick of it. I won't be alive, but I can still do something to keep you safe."

Hermione looked down at her hands as her eyes filled with tears. "Dad—" she began, but he cut her off.

"I should never have let you go to that damned school. You would have done just fine at the local comprehensive. But no, you get a letter from some posh public school in Scotland, and off you go. Fine pair of liberals, your mother and I. Then come to find out you'd been on the front lines of a war, and you never finished school, to say nothing of A-levels. My daughter, a war hero, and I've never even fired a gun." He shook his head. "I should have burnt that letter when I had the chance."

"Dad, say what you want, but I remember having to see psychiatrists whenever I unconsciously started a fire. You and Mum were going spare; the school was telling you that I was disturbed. And then I got my letter, and Professor Dumbledore came to visit, and suddenly everything that was wrong with me made sense." She leaned closer to him. "You didn't do the wrong thing by letting me go, Dad. It's where I was supposed to be."

"You never _told_ us," he said. "You never said anything about death or war or leaving school after Professor Dumbledore was murdered."

She hunched her shoulders, unconsciously shrinking herself. "I was afraid you'd drag me back home," she said in a sad but steady voice. "I couldn't just let Harry and Ron face it all without me."

"How would you feel if Fabian and Blithe did that to you?"

"I would lock them in the deepest dungeon in Britain," she said without hesitation.

Charles Granger laughed mirthlessly. "I hope you never have to."

* * *

It was a subdued trio that returned to Hogwarts that evening. The twins didn't bicker; seeing their grandfather had sparked something like a truce.

With a surge of pride, Hermione had watched her children alternate between joking with their grandfather and talking seriously with their grandmother. No matter how badly they argued, no matter how cross, sullen, and short-tempered they might be at times, these were good kids. They were solicitous with Helen Granger, and upbeat with Charles, and kept the adults amused by acting out bits of classic Muggle comedy routines and telling jokes learned from their uncles.

Blithe had surprised Hermione by refusing to cry until they had returned to The Three Broomsticks. Fabian made snuffling noises during the walk, and knuckled tears away from his cheeks from time to time.

By the time they crossed the castle threshold, they were red-eyed and silent. With mumbled 'night, Mum's, they walked up the stairs to their respective common rooms.

* * *

Her first order of business had been to bathe; she could smell hospital on herself, and it made her feel anxious. Snape's impending visit also made her feel anxious, but in an entirely unrelated way.

She looked at her body appraisingly as she stepped from the bath.

She wasn't fat, but 'slender' seemed like too reedy a term for her shape. She had a little round pooch of a tummy, where the muscle tone had never quite returned after the twins; the ghosts of stretch marks lingered around her navel, a corona of faint pinkish-silver streaks. Her bum was high and solid from years of vigorous walking and her breasts were full and pear-shaped, although her nipples didn't point up perkily any longer, and hadn't for nearly fourteen years.

Her legs were sturdy and strong, also from walking, but, honestly, they had always been the very worst part of her figure; Wizarding robes hid a multitude of sins and one could always count on hemlines staying put at the instep. She had somehow inherited her father's knees, and miniskirts would never figure in her wardrobe.

She wondered briefly if Severus were standing in front of his mirror, looking at himself from the side and the rear, sucking in his belly, wondering whether he would pass muster, and she laughed. In her (admittedly limited) experience, males had a tendency to view their reflections with approval, and as long as there was nothing obviously revolting about their outward appearance, they generally considered themselves ready for action.

It didn't seem quite fair, until she remembered being a young mother with baby sick on her blouse, tangled and un-brushed hair and coffee breath, and Ron becoming inexplicably switched-on at the mere sight of her. When she had protested, claiming her dishevelled state, he had put her at ease rather quickly.

_"I love your hair like that; you look like you just got out of bed after a good shag."_

_"I've got really foul breath," she had protested._

_"Charm it away; or don't, and we'll pretend it's an early morning go and we haven't got any babies to wake us up." He had waggled his eyebrows at her and kissed her thoroughly, coffee breath notwithstanding._

_"And the baby sick?"_

_Ron retrieved his wand and waved it at her blouse, making it, and the rest of her clothes, disappear. "What baby sick?"_

_She had squeaked and giggled as he embraced her, and he murmured in her ear, "You're the sexiest thing I've ever seen."_

_"You're mad," she said, softly, as she didn't want to wake the babies. _

_"Yeah, but I love you," he said, and pulled her down to the bed, on top of him…_

And he _had_ loved her, which at least partly explained his attachment to her naked body, whether properly depilated, groomed and exfoliated or not. He had accepted her post-baby and then incipient-middle-aged figures, just as she had accepted his growing collection of curse scars and the little ruffle of fat that had begun to accumulate around his waist.

To think that once she had taken that acceptance for granted.

Tonight, unless things went very much awry, she would be disrobing before a new lover, one who wouldn't look at her with eyes accustomed to seeing her beauty. He was a sharp, critical man, and although he had become a friend to her, although he had kissed her and touched her intimately, she was apprehensive and vulnerable.

* * *

At precisely nine, there was a single sharp rap on her door.

She smoothed her hair and her robes, and walked so quickly to let him in that she might as well have sprinted.

Severus Snape stood at her door, looking so profoundly awkward and uncomfortable that she wanted to kiss him.

"Professor Weasley," he said, nodding curtly. "I am returning your book." He stuck his arm out; he was holding a green leather-bound book she had never seen before.

"Oh. Oh! Yes, I've been looking for that one." She took it from him, giving the spine a quizzical look. "Erm, did you enjoy it?"

He looked briefly flummoxed. "Ye-es. Very much." He raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, would you care to come in for a moment?"

"Thank you," he said, and stepped into the room. He passed closer to her than strictly necessary, and whispered from the corner of his mouth, "_Close the door_."

She let the heavy wooden door swing shut with a bang.

He withdrew his wand and pointed at the door. "May I?" he asked. She shrugged, and he cast Locking and Silencing Spells.

"Are you expecting company?" she asked.

"Sprout has been lurking in the corridor for at least five minutes."

"_You've_ been in the corridor for five minutes?"

"Give me a little credit; I have a map. I also made a damned good show of not knowing where your rooms were." He snorted. "'Did you enjoy the book, Professor Snape?'" he trilled. "I thought we were going to have a cosy little book club meeting in your corridor."

"You threw me for a loop," she said. "I wasn't expecting you to come with gifts; it's not quite to my taste, though."

He took the book from her hand and read the title. "A Fungus Among Us: Deadly Mushrooms for Fun and Profit." He looked back at her face. "What's not to like? It's a classic."

"I'll wait for the movie."

He snorted a laugh at that, reminding her anew that he had grown up in a partly-Muggle household; Ron wouldn't have appreciated the joke.

"Actually, it's not a book at all," he said, and pointed his wand at the book. "_Finite Incantatem_," he said, and the green leather bubbled into a shiny, clear, green conical shape before it settled into a bottle of wine. "It's no fine vintage, just _vin ordinaire_, but I thought you might enjoy it with your dinner sometime."

"Thank you; this is more to my taste than poisonous mushrooms," she said, taking the proffered bottle. "Would you like a glass now?" she asked.

"No, thank you," he said.

"Would you like to sit down?" she asked, chewing on her bottom lip.

"Yes, thank you," he said.

She guided him towards the red settee in her sitting area, and he sat with a look of faint amusement on his face.

She sat next to him—not _too_ close—and smiled. "I suppose they're part of the standard staff furnishings, right? With colours chosen according to former House affiliation?"

"Yes," he said, and cleared his throat. "Your visit with your family… I presume it went well."

She sighed. "Yes, as well as could be expected. The twins got to spend time with their grandparents, so everyone was pleased with that."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said.

She nodded and twisted her hands together. "How was the outing to Hogsmeade?"

"Uneventful."

"Ah. Good," she said, and with that, an uncomfortable silence fell.

Hermione chewed at her bottom lip.

Severus didn't fidget at all; he glanced all about the room, seemingly taking in details about her personal items. His gaze lingered longest over her bookcase.

Hermione took a deep breath and started speaking. "Oh, Severus, this is so awkward."

He stiffened, and his mien grew blank. "Oh?" he asked frostily.

"I… _we_… I don't know how to pick up where we left off. We were—and now, of course, we can't just go right into the bedroom, but this conversation is… it's awful."

His expression cleared somewhat. "Really? I thought I was doing quite well," he deadpanned. "Come here."

She scooted over until they sat hip to hip and looked up expectantly, lips pursed.

He leaned in close enough to kiss her; she closed her eyes, and felt the ghost of a touch against her mouth. And then she sensed that he had leaned back, away from her.

She opened her eyes in surprise.

"Why," he asked, "_can't_ we just go right into the bedroom?"

She thought for a moment. "I don't know." She grinned foolishly at him, and he kissed her, hard and hot and oddly unexpected.

He took her face in his hands, and kissed her almost leisurely, exploring the taste and texture of her mouth. His uneven front teeth caught rather pleasantly at her lower lip, punctuating and extending each kiss.

She smelled his shampoo, and knew that he had taken special care with his appearance tonight, which made her feel almost unbearably tender towards this man. She ended a kiss by sucking at his lower lip and noisily breaking the suction, and then pushed herself to her feet with her hands on his chest.

She stood rather shakily, her gaze locked on him, and smiled. "Come on, then," she said, and turned towards her bedroom, still watching him over her shoulder.

* * *

"Slow down," he said. "Why do I get the impression that you're going to disrobe and dive under the covers? I want to see you." 

Her hands froze on the front clasps of her robes.

He came up behind her, and covered her hands with his own. "Let me." He pulled at the clasp, and it came free with a _pop_.

The next clasp opened, exposing a wider slice of skin. He traced a fingertip from the pulse beating wildly in her throat down to the next clasp. _Pop… pop… pop…_

He freed her breasts from her robes and cradled them tenderly in his hands, brushing his thumbs over her nipples. "You use charms on your robes, don't you?"

"Um, what?" she asked.

"Brassiere charms; you use them, don't you?"

"Y-yes, I do," she said, lost in sensation despite her self-consciousness.

"Pity," he said.

That got her attention. "Why do you say that?"

"They give the breast a very _hard_ look. Very solid and monolithic."

"Oh. That's bad?" she asked.

He shrugged. "It's not my preference. _This_, however…" He raised one breast and touched the softness on top; her flesh rippled under his touch. "This is just as it should be," he said.

"Easy for you to say," she said with some asperity. "You don't have to heave them about all day."

"I could, but it might prove awkward, having me draped over you like this while you teach. It would make for interesting staff meetings, though." He flicked the pad of his thumb against her nipple as he spoke, and she shivered.

It really was difficult to think while he touched her and nibbled at her neck; his beard tickled very pleasantly. He released her breasts slowly, sensitive to their weight. "Who would have thought it," she said drowsily. "Severus Snape, a breast man."

"Surely you figured that out," he said, opening a clasp over her belly. "You, serving up nipples on purple silk like _petits fours_."

Her brow creased. "What are you—oh! That night… you were…"

"Painfully and hopelessly aroused? Absolutely."

"I thought you were mortified."

"Only by my raging erection."

Her mouth went dry. "Raging?" she asked, arching a brow at him even though he couldn't see it.

"Raging," he confirmed, taking her hand, pulling it behind her back and pressing it hard against him.

"Oh," she whimpered.

"Like that, do you?" he asked.

"_Yes_," she breathed. "I want to see you, Severus."

"And so you shall," he said, but he didn't move.

"_Now_ would be good," she said, squeezing him more aggressively.

He shuddered and stepped back. "Take off your robes and lie down," he murmured in her ear.

She nodded mutely, and shrugged out of her robes; she hadn't donned any undergarments beyond a pretty pair of lacy black knickers, and she heard his low intake of breath. She stepped around him, kicked off her bejewelled Egyptian slippers, and crawled to the middle of the bed, where she stretched out on top of the coverlet. She wanted to display herself to him in the best possible way, so she lay on her side, enhancing the hourglass curve of her waist and hips.

His gaze travelled up and down and over the lines of her body as he unfastened his old-fashioned robes. Under them, he wore only snowy white y-fronts; she had always found that style of men's pants a bit ridiculous, but she didn't have the slightest desire to laugh.

She liked what she saw; she hadn't expected rippling abdominal muscles or bronzed skin. He looked like what he was: a middle-aged, British academic.

He didn't run to fat like the Weasleys did in middle age. He was thin, and black hair liberally peppered his pale chest, forearms and legs; the contrast made his skin appear even more pallid than it was. The Dark Mark glowered from his left forearm, and the symbol still sent a frisson of fear through her; she wondered briefly if her continued arousal in the face of this fear made her a deeply disturbed person or not.

His arms were wiry, his legs sinewy, but he wasn't merely skin and bone. He gave the impression of being quite tough, just not in a street-brawler sort of way. Instead, he reminded her of a long-distance runner: travelling as lightly as possible given his tall frame, but wholly capable of remarkable feats of strength and endurance.

His wasn't a pin-up physique, but she had never particularly cared for that, and his body suited him: angular and austerely beautiful, at least to her. He stood before her, utterly unselfconscious, hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and dragged them down. He kicked his underwear to the side and crawled toward her. The lines of his face appeared more harshly etched than ever, and she shivered.

He dipped his hand into her knickers, and she cried out, rolling her hips impatiently.

"What do you want, Hermione?" he asked, his words a breath across her cheek.

"Mmmm… I want you—Ah! I want you now." She raised her bottom off the mattress and swept her knickers down her legs, tossing them aside.

He kissed her deeply, and drew her hand to him. "Guide me," he said.

"Do you want me?" she whispered as she touched him.

" i Yes /i ," he said through clenched teeth.

* * *

"That was incredible," she said breathlessly, enjoying the slow spread of his lazy grin.

"Beyond incredible, I think," he said, kissing her breast. "I won't be up for more for a while yet, possibly not until morning, but I can be at your service for hours, if you wish."

She stretched next to him, and yawned. "I'll regret this later, but I think I'm too tired for another go."

"Sacrilege," he said in a gravely voice. He kissed her and stroked her bottom.

He rolled to his other side, reaching for the blankets to cover them, and she curled up behind him. "What happens now?" she asked sleepily, wrapping her arms around his waist and nuzzling the back of his neck.

"We sleep," he said.

She poked his belly, and he grunted, mostly for effect. "I know that. _After_ sleep."

He sighed loud and deep. "What do you want to happen? Not that I'm offering anything, mind you."

"I like _this_."

"More of _this_ could be arranged."

She kissed his shoulder. "Good. I guess that's all I want at this point."

He sighed, this time contentedly. "Excellent."

"Why? What were you thinking? That I'd want marriage, even after our talk?"

"It wouldn't be the first time that I went to bed with one woman and woke up with another," he said; she felt rather than saw his shrug.

"I beg your pardon?" she asked archly.

"Speaking figuratively, of course."

"I should hope so."

"I had nightmare visions of phrases like 'long-term commitment'." He reached back to stroke her hip.

"Don't worry. I would have turned you down," she said, and giggled as he shot a disdainful look over his shoulder. "Roll over; your bum is cold."

"Warm it up for me," he growled. She pinched him. "Ouch; not like that."

"Body heat can do only so much; you've got a bony arse."

"You weren't complaining about it earlier."

"I'm not complaining about it _now_."

He rolled over. "Yours isn't the least bit bony, thank God," he said, sliding his hands around her to cup her bum.

She held him by the arse, as well, stroking his flesh firmly and surely. He winced. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Bruise," he said.

"From where I kicked you the other day?" she asked. He nodded, and she giggled delightedly. "Ah, poor baby," she said, cooing, giving him a solid pat. "Would you like me to kiss it better?"

He looked at her through narrowed eyes. "Yes; as a matter of fact, I would."

She climbed over him, curling herself like a spoon against his back and sliding down. Holding him by the hips, she placed a soft, wet, open-mouthed kiss on the bruise. "Better?"

"Hmmm… not quite," he said.

"Time to turn the other cheek, then," she said, nudging him onto his belly. She traced a line with her tongue to his lower back and then back down to the other side of his bum. She bit him playfully, just to hear him complain, which he obligingly did, and then straddled his backside.

"Aren't you afraid that I'm going to attack you in your vulnerable state?" she taunted softly.

He snorted. "We've all got to go sometime," he said, closing his eyes.

Hermione looked over at the chest of drawers, scanning. "_Accio_ oil," she said. There was a small, meaty slap as the phial connected with her hand.

His shoulders tensed, and he tried to raise himself onto his elbows. "Uh, what exactly did you have in mind?"

"Nothing like you're so luridly imagining, I can assure you," she said, pushing him back down.

He heard the tiny _thunk_ of the cork coming loose, and then the _swish-swish_ of her palms rubbing together. He relaxed, and she dug her thumbs into deep trenches on either side of his spine.

He yelped, twisting. "Christ, woman! You _are_ trying to kill me, aren't you?"

"Just _relax_, Severus."

"Relax, hell! Bloody hurts, doesn't it?"

"I'm very good at this, really. I've taken classes—"

"To dig out my spine with your bare fingers? Bloodthirsty wench…" he muttered.

"_Massage_. I took classes in massage. It can be very pleasurable."

"So can—_agh_! the Cruciatus Curse, provided you're not on the receiving end!"

She dropped her hands to his back in defeat; they made a soft _slap_. She climbed off him, and lay on her back, her hands folded on her belly.

Severus rolled to his back, put his hands behind his head and sighed.

"What were you thinking I would do, sitting on your bum and getting out the oil?" Her voice was tight and strained, as if she were trying to suppress tears.

"I thought you might give me a simple back rub, which might turn into a simple front rub, which I might then return."

"If anyone ever needed a good massage, Severus, it's you. You're wound up tighter than a ten-Sickle Sneakoscope."

"We agreed that you weren't going to try to fix me," he said quietly.

She took a small, startled intake of breath. "I wanted to help you feel—"

"I don't _need_ help and I don't want help. I'm neither a house-elf nor a Longbottom."

She lay there, silently working her jaw for a few stunned moments. "Oh, God, this was a mistake," she whispered, looking at the ceiling before she squeezed her eyes shut. Tears leaked from her eyes and ran into her ears.

He snorted a laugh and put his hand over hers, squeezing. "Don't be so rash, Godric. We were enjoying ourselves, right up until the point you did something I didn't like, and I responded in a way you didn't like."

"But—" she began, as he cut her off.

"Is massage integral to the success of this liaison?"

"_Nnnno…"_

"Then let it go. You're not going to change my mind; I have taken quite enough injury 'for my own good' for one lifetime, thank you."

She turned her head and looked at him. Silvery tear tracks were drying on her cheeks. "You don't expect me to apologize for trying to do something nice for you, do you?"

"Do you expect me to apologize for refusing it?"

"I suppose not," she said.

"Then we will have to agree to disagree on this point. I will remind you that you did rather a spectacular job of 'doing something nice' for me earlier," he said.

"It wasn't anything _special_," she said with a tiny smile.

"Not special?" he asked, and clapped his hands over his heart, as if suffering an attack. "You wound me, lady."

"I meant—"

"I know what you meant," he said in a tired, raspy voice. He yawned and rolled to his side, stroking her hair. "Sleep with me," he said softly.

"_My_ bed," she said.

"If you must be nice to me, then let me sleep here with you."

She grumbled an affirmative, and relaxed against him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

* * *

A/N: This is the Safe and Sanitized version. The truly naughty version is archived at a child-safe archive, Sycophant Hex; sorry, but it must be so. Same name, same title. Tell 'em snarky sent you.

The bit about Hermione's parents being a 'fine pair of liberals' for not letting Hermione go to the local comprehensive school was inspired by Sphinx's "Letter from Exile One Merciful Morning". A true classic of this 'ship.

Also, the lovely Inell, who posts spectacular Hermione-centric fic at her lj account, wrote the sweetest, sexiest Ron and Hermione first-time fic, called "One Rainy Night." If I were going to write how my Ron and Hermione in "Becoming" first got together, I couldn't do it half as tenderly, awkwardly and beautifully as she did with her story.

No, my Severus doesn't wear black or green silk underwear. Sorry. I can possibly see a twenty-something!Severus wearing them, but _only_ when he was going 'on the pull,' i.e. expecting to have sex. Older!Severus wouldn't think the trouble was worth it; they're not particularly comfortable or supportive, and it's not as if he's going to parade around in his shorts, posing like (God forbid!) Lockhart might. Since he's the only character whose underwear we've seen in canon, I wanted to stick with prosaic Muggle pants, although he would be scrupulous about ensuring that they were _never_ ancient or greying. BTW, 'y-fronts' is Britglish for 'Fruit-of-the-Looms' or 'tighty-whities.'

My dear selened beta'ed this chapter for me, even though she's on vacation. Is that cool or what? She's totally awesome! Thanks, Selene!


	10. Chapter 10

**Becoming  
**by snarkypants

Chapter Ten

If Hermione had entertained romantic notions of waking up cradled in Severus' arms in a room limned with lemony sunlight, she would have been disappointed.

As it was, she awoke to the torrent of an adult male pissing into a toilet. It was preferable to awakening to the sound of that adult male sneaking from her room, however, so she was inclined to benevolence.

The toilet flushed, and Severus emerged from the en-suite, looking as cross as ever; his hair had gone quite limp and greasy overnight. He idly scratched his bare arse as he padded back to the bed, lit only by the grey Scottish dawn.

"Morning," she said, her voice husky with sleep. She received a sour grunt in reply, but he appeased her with a kiss to the back of her neck. He curled behind her, pulling her close, and promptly stuck his ice-cold feet between her calves.

"Do you _have_ to scream like that?" he asked resentfully.

"Yes, I do," she growled.

"'m cold," he said, and nuzzled her neck with his freezing nose.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Severus, if you want to wake me up, be civilized about it," she hissed.

"You're warm," he said, and pulled her closer. "Smell nice." His hand slipped under the covers, seeking her breast and finding it; he plucked at her nipple, seemingly content.

* * *

She wasn't aware that she had fallen asleep again until she awoke to find herself sprawled on her back, with a curious weight on and between her spread thighs, and the tickle of fur – no, wait, hair – on her bare belly. There was a Severus-sized lump beneath the covers, and she smiled to herself.

"Good morning," she said, reaching down to give the lump a companionable pat.

"She lives," he said, the irony in his voice somehow penetrating the thick coverlet.

"What're you doing?"

"I would say 'getting the lay of the land,' but I got that last night."

"Ooh, cheeky." She nudged him in the ribs with her knee. "You're in a better mood than you were earlier."

He pulled the covers back, revealing his face; he squinted in the light. "I wanted to see you."

"Seen one, seen them all, I'd think," she said.

"Ah, but I can't afford to take such things for granted; I might never see another." He nipped at her belly.

"Fatalistic, are we?"

"Realistic, more like."

"This is an odd conversation. How can you see anything under the covers?"

"Ever heard of a bit of third-year magic, called _Lumos_?"

"Smartarse. I'll leave you to it, then, shall I?"

"Won't be a moment." He flung the covers back over his head

"Hmph. That's what _you_ think," she said, holding him firmly in place with her knees.

He chuckled and went about his business.

* * *

"We should go to breakfast," he said much later.

She stretched beneath the sheet, writhing in a manner certain to draw his attention to the curves of her breasts. "I'd rather have a nice, lazy breakfast in bed. With _you_," she emphasized as he stepped into his pants, her writhing unnoticed.

"Simultaneous absences would be noted, and commented upon, by Pomona."

Her face fell. "Oh, damn."

"Out of respect for Minerva's wishes, we should keep it discreet."

"Keep _what_ discreet?"

"This," he said, pulling his trousers on.

"_This?_ You told Minerva about _this?"_

"I didn't tell her; she guessed. And not about _this_ precisely, just that there was something between us."

"Oh, God."

"She was generally approving."

Hermione whimpered and vaulted out of the bed.

"Said it would be a good thing for me to get some regular totty. Top totty, too, I might add."

"Minerva never said that," Hermione said, her hair whipping around as she scrambled into her knickers.

"No, but it would have been amusing. I should put her under Imperius to say just that; it'd almost be worth the stay in Azkaban." He fastened his robes with quick fingers.

"Oh, God, don't even try at being funny. She'll think I'm the Whore of Babylon."

"Minerva doesn't think in those terms. Sprout, on the other hand…"

"You are not helping me right now." She poked her head through the neck of her robes, grimacing as static electricity crackled through her hair.

Severus' eyes widened in alarm as her naturally bushy hair stood out from her head in an aureole. She took her wand from the bedside table and performed a static-discharging charm on herself.

"Where's the problem?" he asked, finger-combing his own hair; he was going to need a good shampooing, and soon. "We're both adults, both unmarried."

"_You're_ an adult. I'm the 'Sainted Widow Weasley Whose Husband is Barely Cold'."

"If it's any comfort to you, I assure you he's quite cold."

She scowled at him.

Unmoved, he continued. "Hasn't it been more than a year?"

"Ten months," she said.

"Hardly the Whore of Babylon, then. Not even the Page Three Girl of Babylon."

"It's not a year."

"You loved your husband, mourned him well, remember him fondly and care for his children. Unless I am much mistaken, you were faithful to him throughout your marriage, and for ten months after his death. That's better than most men get," he added in a low voice, brushing minute flecks from the front of his robes.

She looked up at him from her seat at the edge of the bed. "Severus."

"Mm?" he asked, inspecting his teeth in the dressing mirror.

"I don't regret this at all, you know. This… _us_."

His gaze met hers in the mirror and flicked away. "Good."

"My chief concern is that there are people—people who I love—who would be hurt by learning about it in the wrong way."

"Why must they learn about it at all?"

"Well. If it's a one-time thing, it would be easy to keep secret." She wove the fabric of her robes through her fingers. "Is—is that what you want?" She couldn't look at him.

He didn't move, didn't stir so much as an eyelash; he was so still that she would have been able to hear it. "No," he said.

"Me neither."

He still hadn't moved, and she risked looking up at him. He was watching her intently, and winced in a smile-like way when their gazes met.

"They might be upset when I tell them, but if they find out by accident—"

"They won't. I am very good at concealment."

"But _I'm_ not. I can't just lie to them, Severus."

"It's not lying; it's withholding information."

"Oh, _really_." She restrained herself, just barely, from rolling her eyes.

"Information that is none of their bloody business, I might add."

"This is my family that we're talking about. They do have a right to know that—"

"—That you've moved on? You're no longer yearning for your dead husband? You're getting a bit on the side? Measurements, positions, who came first?"

"Don't be crude. They have a right to know that I'm… seeing someone."

"I disagree."

"I'll make note of it in my memoirs."

He sighed, low and grumbling. "On your own head be it, then. I do wish you'd keep me out of it; I'm not looking forward to the inevitable bombardment of howlers."

"I don't think it would come to that."

He snorted.

"Severus, ah, I probably won't ever stop yearning for my husband."

"The possibility had occurred to me. Particularly after you called me 'Ron'."

She froze. "What? Oh, God. Not during—"

"No. Not _during_. When you were asleep."

"I'm so sorry."

"I get the better end of the deal than he does. If the price for that is that you call me by his name in your sleep…" He made a dismissive gesture.

She didn't know quite what to make of that. "Well, thank you, I suppose."

"Oh, no, thank _you_," he said, leering at her. Before she could open her mouth to respond to that, he tugged her to her feet. "And now, to breakfast."

* * *

"Oi, Fraser, isn't that the bint that gave you the brush-off?"

Blithe hunched her shoulders, trying to disappear inside of her robes.

Alec Fraser, the rat, gave her a mocking once-over. "I wouldn't call her a bint, Hawley. Jumped-up, stuck-up cow, more like."

"Lucky escape you got, though. I heard any bloke she touches, dies," Hawley said, laughing. "Dad, grandfather, you could've been next."

Blithe's face was brilliantly red, attesting to her Weasley heritage even more clearly than her russet hair. She tucked her head down even further.

"But what a way to go, eh?" Hawley said. He hopped down from the half wall where he had been lounging, and sauntered in front of Blithe. He held his hands ostentatiously out and away from her, as if afraid to touch her.

Fraser began to look uncomfortable. "Let's leave her alone, Reg. She looks like she's about to cry."

"Aw, I'm not doing anything, am I, Red?" he asked. "Not even touching her."

Blithe glared up at Hawley; he had to have been left back in school. He was easily a foot taller than all the other fourth-years.

"Would you _like_ me to touch you, Red? My family's got rules against _dating_ social-climbing arse-kissers like the Weasleys, but a quick grab isn't out of the question." He loomed over her, using nothing more than height and menace to alter her path, backing her against a wall.

"Leave me alone," she said, low and meaning it.

"Reg…" Fraser said nervously. Blithe couldn't see him; Hawley's frame blocked him from view.

"How 'bout a little kiss, Red?" Hawley crooned, pushing out his lips obscenely, making disgusting kissing noises at her.

Blithe pulled her wand from her sleeve, made an odd movement with it, and chanted: "_Akhy Engleezy, ilhaas teezy_."

A quickly spreading circle of wet appeared on the front of his trousers; Hawley froze and yelped. He goggled at Blithe before pressing his knees together and wrapping his robes tightly around him. Urine dripped from his trouser legs and shoes, and he ran, knock-kneed, away from her, to the jeers and shouts of the other students.

Alec Fraser edged away from her, heading in the opposite direction to that in which Hawley had gone.

From the courtyard, Jim-James grinned at his cousin, giving her a proud thumbs-up.

* * *

Hermione's booted heels made a no-nonsense sort of clacking as she stalked down the corridor. She didn't meet with many students on her way, and those few she did meet saw her fearsome expression and ducked out of her path.

For her part, she was so intent on her internal dialogue that she didn't notice people scrambling out of her way.

_He's gone too far_, she thought. She might be new to all of this, but she was fairly sure that he was taking advantage of her.

She rounded the corner to the Defence classroom. This late in the day there would be no students present; she would be able to speak her mind without worrying about who might overhear. The great door creaked open, and she slipped through, pushing it closed behind her.

Severus' office door was slightly ajar, which boded well for him being there. She stomped up the short flight of stairs, boot heels echoing through the cavernous room, and rapped smartly on the door.

He opened the door, scowling in surprise to see her there. "Professor Weasley… to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I've a bone to pick; will you let me in?"

His mouth became pinched. "Of course." He opened the door more widely, and gestured toward a chair in front of his desk. "Please be seated," he said, closing the door behind them.

She was far too keyed-up to sit, and instead paced back and forth in front of his desk.

He sat heavily in his desk chair, and watched her over the tips of his steepled fingers. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Cherrington. How do you deal with him?"

The lines between his eyes relaxed slightly, and he leaned back in his chair. "I try not to."

"When you _must_ deal with him, how do you?"

"I tell him what Minerva wants of him, and he does it."

"No, he doesn't; he delegates it to _me_."

A look of unholy amusement crossed his face. "Indeed? I'd never have thought Perkin had it in him; well done."

She shot him a sour look. "I don't want to be house disciplinarian, but whenever there's some sort of kerfuffle, he drags me into it and dumps it in my lap."

"By 'kerfuffle,' I presume you mean a Gryffindor cursing another with an incontinence spell."

"I mean _my daughter_ defending herself against a bully with a spell that did no permanent damage."

"No permanent damage? Have you seen the carpets in Gryffindor Tower? More to the point, have you _smelled_ them?" Severus, damn him, actually smirked.

"He's told me to discipline her for it, when I think she did exactly the right thing. And the boy involved has 'suffered enough'." She made an inarticulate sound of rage. "He knows the position he's putting me in, and he doesn't give a damn."

His eyes narrowed. "You want me to take care of him for you, then, is that what you're asking?"

"No, I—"

"A mere three days after our… _liaison_ and you suddenly expect me to fight your battles for you."

"I _never_ said that—" she began, sputtering.

"Really, madam? Before Saturday, you hadn't so much as darkened the door to my office, and yet today here you are, demanding that I do something about a troublesome colleague."

"_Demanding_? I asked for _advice_—"

"—No doubt expecting that I would rush to your defence and take care of it myself—"

"That is completely unfair!" Pacing forgotten, she stood stock-still in front of the desk.

"I call it honest."

She made an exasperated noise. "I don't know what's expected of me, Severus. I teach my classes and I'm learning my additional duties, but Cherrington keeps implying that I'm letting down the side if I baulk at doing his head-of-house-type duties. _Am_ I? That's all I want to know, and then I'll leave you in peace." She gave him a hard look. "_And_ I'll deal with it myself."

"Damned right, you will. Why didn't you go to Minerva about this?"

"I'm trying to figure out how I should handle it; I _thought_ that I could trust you to give me good advice without making a big production of it."

He leaned back in his chair, watching her. Undaunted, she met his gaze, her chin thrust forward pugnaciously.

After several minutes, he rocked forward. "Right. Sit down, Hermione."

She did, plumping gracelessly down and folding her arms across her chest.

"You _are_ letting down the side, but only because Cherrington lets down the side much worse than you would. He doesn't want the head of house job; he was rather put out that you didn't take it on when you joined the staff."

"But I told Minerva—" Hermione began, only to be silenced as Severus waved her comment away with an abrupt gesture.

"I know that, and so does he. You have valid reasons for not wanting to take on the duty. But it doesn't change the fact that the head of Gryffindor doesn't want to do it, and will avoid the attendant unpleasantness at any cost." He snorted. "Disciplinary action doesn't work; as far as he's concerned, being head of house is the worst punishment we could mete out. If we remove him from the duty in a punitive way, we would, in fact, be rewarding him, and that, my dear, sticks in my throat.

"So, what should _you_ do? You have two choices before you, and they are equally unappealing. You can tell Cherrington to get knotted, and be left in _relative_ peace as Gryffindors run amok and the head of house entombs himself in his office. Or you can become the de facto head of house in everything but title and pay, copping the blame when things go pear-shaped, and letting Cherrington get the glory when they go well." He smiled nastily. "Having fun yet?"

"If he's so awful, why hasn't he been sacked?"

Severus shrugged. "He's a decent Potions master, and those are rather thin on the ground. And Minerva has her… reasons, which, of course, must remain unknown to the staff at large. It is, after all, not without precedent to keep incompetents and frauds at Hogwarts, if doing so benefits the Greater Good."

"What about bloody-minded Potions masters?" she asked in an arch voice.

"Those, too; don't forget the even-_more_-bloody-minded Defence teachers."

She snorted. "As if I could."

"I rejoice to hear it. Incidentally, what does that couplet mean, the 'Engleezy' bit?"

"It's Arabic, a schoolyard chant the twins learnt in Egypt. It means 'I speak English, lick my arse'. It has nothing to do with the incontinence spell; it just sounds impressive."

His mouth twitched. "Please understand me: I would never recommend that a member of staff offer to demonstrate such a curse for another member of staff, particularly as that other member of staff is already morbidly fascinated with his bladder's level of dysfunction. I could not possibly advocate such behaviour."

"That sounds like fighting dirty to me," she said, looking at him as if she had never seen him before, a slow smile spreading across her face.

"I never said anything about actually _using_ a curse, did I?" He leaned back in his chair. "Was there anything else, Professor Weasley?" he asked.

She grinned at him. "No, I think you've answered my questions, Professor Snape."

"Excellent." He rose to his feet, heading to the door. "Should you require another _tête-à-tête_ at some point, say Friday evening, don't hesitate to call on me."

She hesitated, giving him a coy look. "Friday? I was going to wash my hair that night."

"What an odd coincidence; so was I," he said, his eyes wide with feigned surprise.

She laughed and stood on tiptoe to kiss his mouth. He didn't make any move to embrace her, but he didn't dodge the kiss, either.

"Be gone, woman," he said _sotto voce_.

* * *

"I can't believe Blithe had the guts to use that curse," Fabian said a week later. He was ostensibly doing his homework in her office, although he seemed more interested in playing with her abacus and her runic tiles than in completing his assignments. "Worked a treat, though, didn't it?"

Privately, Hermione thought the spell _had_ worked a treat. Reggie Hawley had only stopped wearing nappies to class a day ago, and Cherrington still eyed her skittishly whenever they were within fifty meters of each other.

"I wouldn't advise using it on anyone, dear," she said blandly. "It's on the list of prohibited spells now, and would cause you a lot of trouble."

"You could get me out of it, though, right?" he asked, and laughed when she bristled. "Just a joke, Mum. But if Blithe doesn't leave off soon, perhaps I'll use it at Christmas."

"Fabian, I'm a bit curious; what _is_ with all the 'poofter' talk from your sister?" Hermione asked.

Fabian rolled his eyes, sighing in annoyance. "Just Blithe being Blithe. She heard me and Jim-James having a fight, and came in at the end of it, and now the nosey parker thinks she knows something."

"You and Jim-James were fighting? When was this?"

"Couple weeks ago." He crossed his arms over his chest, no further information forthcoming.

"What were you fighting about?"

He sighed. "He likes this girl."

"… And?"

"And I don't." He thought a moment. "I don't _dislike_ her. I just don't think she's 'the most beautiful girl, ever'."

"Why should he have a problem with that?"

"Isn't it obvious? If I don't think she's wankab—" He made a horrible noise in his throat, blushing furiously. "Jim-James couldn't stand it. If I wasn't jealous of him I _must_ be a fairy, because she's gorgeous; end of story."

"Do you want me to tell Blithe to leave off?"

"_God_ no," Fabian said. "Then she'll think there's something to it." He shrugged. "It gets annoying after a while. I _like_ girls. I just haven't liked one enough to make an idiot of myself yet."

"Sweetheart, you're only thirteen; you've got plenty of time to make an idiot of yourself. Your father was nearly seventeen before _he_ did," she added with asperity.

His face brightened. "Really? I guess I always thought you were practically married as first-years."

"Oh, heavens, no, and _I_ wasn't the girl he made an idiot of himself for."

"No way! Dad wasn't at all smooth, was he?" Fabian gave her a wry smile that reminded her so forcibly of Ron that her throat tightened.

"Not particularly. That's one of the things I loved about him."

Fabian looked away and rubbed his knuckles against his chin. "You and Uncle Harry didn't … you know… date, or anything, did you?"

"No," she said, not without some sadness. "We never… we were never really _curious_ about each other that way, I suppose; I don't know why."

"You wouldn't ever… I don't know… get together with him, would you?"

"Your Aunt Ginny might object to that," she said, laughing.

"I don't know," Fabian said, doubt clouding his expression. "They fight a lot. A lot more than you and Dad did."

"They're under a lot more pressure than your dad and I were. If either of them says or does something the wrong way, or wears the wrong thing, it ends up in the papers; people dissect their every gesture, so they have to be on guard at every moment. It's wearing."

Fabian shrugged. "You know, Mum, I've never envied Jim-James before, not ever. I'd see their houses and their money and their things and how they hobnob with Quidditch stars and everything, but I knew that Uncle Harry was gone so much of the time, and when he was home he and Aunt Ginny argued, and there was always somebody Floo'ing or dropping by, or even forcing an entry into their house like they did that one time." He scowled at a memory. "Remember when Blithe and I went to visit them a few years ago, and it was all over the papers that they had adopted 'impoverished Egyptian twins'?"

Hermione nodded; it had caused Ron no end of anger to see his children labelled, however inaccurately, as 'impoverished'. "Your dad was furious."

Fabian's expression darkened. "Jim-James, he acts as though Uncle Harry was this big annoyance and he can't wait to be rid of him. He just pisses me off sometimes."

"He doesn't really want to be rid of him, Fabian. He just wants people to see him as himself, not 'Harry Potter's son'."

Fabian snorted. "If it was me, I wouldn't care. At least I'd have my dad."

Hermione tactfully refrained from reminding him about the many squabbles that Ron and he had got into as Fabian grew older. She settled instead for rubbing his back between his shoulder blades. "It's all right to miss him, Fabian."

"D'you think he misses me?"

"Of course he does."

"I thought, at first, that he might come back as a ghost. I was really pissed off at you when you gave up the house in Egypt. But he wasn't there, and he's not at the Burrow. And he's not here at Hogwarts."

"I wouldn't want him to be a ghost, Fabian. He lived a full, courageous life, and he wasn't afraid to take the next step, even though he knew it would take him further away from us for a while."

"But if he was a ghost, I'd get to talk to him. I'd get to tell him—" Fabian's face creased and split, despite his manful attempt at keeping back tears.

"Oh, baby," she said, and put her arms around him. Patently not a baby, he was taller than she was now, and he had to stoop awkwardly to put his head on her shoulder. "He knows. He knows you love him. He knows you didn't mean that fight last Christmas. He knows, Fabian. Wherever he is, he knows."

She staggered a little under his weight, but managed to hold him as he cried out his frustration and loss.

* * *

"Severus?" she asked, looking up from an exam she was marking.

"Mm?" He didn't look up from his book.

"Do you remember me telling you about the wedding?"

"No."

"I told you when we were walking back from Hogsmeade that night. I said that I'd love to dance with you."

"Ah, that. I rarely pay attention to drunken ramblings."

"I wasn't _that_ drunk."

He shrugged.

"I _wasn't_." She cleared her throat. "At any rate. I've, ah, thought about it a bit since then, and I've really begun to think that I should go alone; it would create such a sensation and I'm just not ready to stand the racket yet. Not least because the bride would be furious with me."

"Very well," he said, and returned his attention to his book.

"Have I offended you?"

"Not at all."

"Are you certain?"

He shot her a dark look from under his brows. "Actually, I'm dying inside. I was gagging to spend an evening in the company of your appalled in-laws. How will I ever content myself?" He licked the tip of his finger and turned the page.

She pressed her lips tightly together. "I suppose it's a good thing that I'm going alone, then."

He mumbled something into his book.

"I beg your pardon?" she asked.

"If it would have pleased you, I could have endured it."

"W-what?" she asked, her nose wrinkling; surely she had misheard him.

"You heard me," he said.

"I'm not certain I did," she said, a delighted smile spreading over her face.

"Stop it," he said, scowling so resolutely at his book that his chin met his chest. "You heard what I said, and I won't repeat myself."

"It's just the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Mmphmm. It's not _carte blanche_ to make me miserable. The statement applies to this situation only."

"Would you do something for me?"

He looked at her through narrowed eyes. "What?"

"Would you hold me?"

His expression didn't grow any less suspicious. "Why?"

She laughed; it had a weary and bitter sound. "Because I had a very difficult talk with my son this afternoon, and I'm exhausted and near to tears, and if you don't I'm going to ask you to leave and I'm going to go cry into my pillow."

He paused a moment before setting his book aside and opening his arms.

She curled up next to him on the settee and buried her face in his neck, breathing deeply.

"You had only to ask, you know," he said, wrapping his arms around her and stroking her hair.

She groaned and thumped him in the chest with her forehead.

* * *

As always, my most sincere thanks to selened, my beta.

The 'spell' Blithe uses to subdue Hawley is an actual bit of Arabic doggerel; it's a schoolyard chant that means exactly what Hermione says it does. I just turned it into a Weasley-designed humiliation spell. I got it from Steve's blog, . Funny stuff.

You may have noticed that I've updated this rather quickly over the past week or two. This is actually a story that I've been working on for a year now, and my account here at is up to date with the current publication of the story. I'm working on Chapter 11, and hope to have it up both here and at Sycophant Hex by the week after Christmas. Thanks for reading and reviewing!


	11. Chapter 11

--Chapter 11--

It was the eve before Hermione's departure for the Burrow.

It hadn't been easy to convince Severus to visit her that evening; the more she pushed for it, the more he dug in his heels until she finally had to admit that she'd got him a Christmas gift and wanted to give it to him before she left.

If she hadn't been married for several years she might have missed the fleeting look of panic that crossed his face. Served him right; if he hadn't been so bloody stubborn she would have sprung the gift on him without his foreknowledge, and then he wouldn't have the time to worry about a reciprocal present. It wasn't a huge gift, after all; she considered it a nicely-judged compromise between uncomfortably intimate and coolly impersonal, and wasn't likely to offend him at all.

He arrived a full fifteen minutes after expected, which was a surprise; he was usually painstakingly prompt. Without a word, he unceremoniously handed her a wrapped parcel and swept past her into her front room.

"Good evening, Severus," she said.

"Just get it over with," he said in a thoroughly grumpy voice.

"Happy bloody Christmas to you, too," she said, matching his tone.

She unwrapped what was undeniably a book and scanned the cover, recognizing the novel as one she had had looked at previously and dismissed for being rather stupid.

"Oh. Really, what is it?" she asked, turning it over in her hands; the last book he had given her had been transfigured from a bottle of wine.

"It's a _book,_" he said in a tone of voice that suggested she was being unusually dim.

"Yes, but which one? The non-fiction about the royal arithmancers in the court of Ivan the Terrible? Ooh, is it the new bio on John Dee? I _love _the Elizabethan arithmancers; so brilliant."

"No, it's—" he tilted his head sideways and read the spine, "— Ione, Queen of the Druids. The bookseller recommended it for a lady who's an avid reader."

"Oh." She looked again at the book, vainly hoping to see a different cover appearing over the garish illustration of the alleged Druid queen and her be-muscled supplicant. The cover didn't change, and Ione continued to simper stupidly up at her.

"You don't like it," he said, stating it as fact rather than as a question. "The man at Flourish and Blotts said it's practically flying off shelves."

"No, it's not that—" she began, pasting a quick smile on her face.

He put out his hand for the book. "Very well; I'll return it," he said.

"Just—" she said, as he whisked it out of her hands. "Hey! Let me give it a go."

"Don't patronise." He put it with his cloak; when he turned back to her his expression was even more cross than before. "It was a last-minute purchase."

"Oh, Severus, I should never have said anything about gifts; I just wanted to be sure to see you before I left."

"So you don't have a gift for me after all? How very devious of you." His eyebrow went up.

"Of course I have a gift for you." She pulled a parcel from the voluminous pocket of her robes. "I thought you might enjoy this."

It was wrapped in plain paper with a narrow blue velvet ribbon around it, and he peeled the gift open slowly.

"Quills? And ink?" he asked with a faint smile, looking at her uncertainly.

"They're special quills from Australia; I discovered them a few years ago. The tips are very springy and strong, so they stay sharp almost forever and you can write for hours without your hand going numb." She lifted a quill from the parcel, and pushed her fingertip against the tip of the pen, which bent and sprang back into place. "And the ink just melts onto the page without dragging on the paper; I find that so annoying, don't you?"

"You sent all the way to Australia for these?" he asked, horror dawning on his face.

"No, no, these are from my personal stock. I can't bear to run out, you see. I've spent years trying to find quills that write as smoothly as Muggle pens."

He relaxed somewhat and gave her a pleased sort of grimace. "Thank you. I'll enjoy using them." He wrapped the paper back around the parcel, securing it with the ribbon and placing it with his things.

"It's a small thing, but with as much writing as we do, I've found them to be a real luxury."

"I'll think of you every time I mark some dunderhead's paper with a 'T'."

"I hope you'll think of me often, then," she teased. "That's very sentimental of you."

"Don't tell anyone."

"Not a word."

"Ach, I'm a beast," he said, scowling at the wall beyond her right shoulder.

"I _know,_" she replied. "You could have made things much easier on yourself."

"I don't much care for surprises."

"And I understand that; it's why you're still here and why I'm still speaking to you."

He acknowledged this with a nod of his head. "Happy Christmas, Hermione."

"Happy Christmas to you, too," she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss him.

"When was it that you're leaving again?" he asked between kisses, pulling her closer.

"Planning to see me off?"

He nipped at her chin. "Much rather _get _you off, seeing that my _gift _was a cock-up."

"How did you know I wanted a cock-up for Christmas?" She palmed him through his trousers, and he hissed a breath through his teeth. "By all means, continue; the Portkey's set for nine in the morning."

* * *

Hermione came wide awake at a faint sound from her front room. The ever-vigilant, maternal part of her brain had recognized her child's step, and she sat bolt upright in bed. 

_"Blithe?"_

"_Mu_-um?"

Severus stirred in his sleep, and Hermione plumped the covers around him, concealing him from view. "Shhh… go back to sleep," she whispered, kissing his ear; he settled himself more comfortably, and gave a tiny, contented grunt.

She got out of bed, quickly wrapping her dressing gown around her; the room was chilly and she shivered. She drew the hangings of the bed closed even as she toed into her slippers. "What is it, sweetheart?" she asked.

"I think I've got my period." Blithe's face was wan, and she was hunched over her folded arms.

"Oh, my poor sausage," Hermione said, laughing in relief. "You're going to have a wretched Christmas, aren't you?"

Blithe nodded, wearing the most pitiful pout Hermione had seen on her daughter's face in twelve years. She put her arms around her, still chuckling. "Come on, let's get you sorted," she said in a carrying voice; as lightly as Severus slept, he would surely know to stay still and quiet while they passed through the bedroom into the en-suite.

"'s not funny," Blithe growled.

"Of course it's not funny; I was just remembering _my _first period. I think they're meant to be dreadful."

Blithe squinted up at her mother in the bright light of the bathroom. "What was so dreadful about yours?" she asked in a flat voice.

"I'd managed to turn myself into a great black cat, and no sooner had I got over the hairballs and shed the fur, I got cramps and diarrhoea the likes of which I'd never before experienced. Madam Pomfrey was so worried; she thought it was an unexpected side-effect of the potion until the blood appeared. I think I would much rather have kept the fur and whiskers, at that," she said.

Hermione spent half an hour transfiguring and showing her daughter a variety of sanitary napkins and tampons and telling her about the relative advantages and disadvantages of each. Blithe wasn't quite ready to try anything more involved than a napkin, and she screwed up her face in annoyance. "Isn't there something _magic _you can do?"

"You've had the pain relief potion; that's pretty much the extent of it. That and tea."

"Tea's not magic."

"Bite your tongue, miss. My mum always said that a good cuppa can cure anything, especially cramps. Want me to call down for a pot?"

Blithe nodded, and burrowed into her mother's side.

Hermione hugged her and pecked a kiss on her forehead, which Blithe tolerated with better-than-usual grace. "I'm glad you came to me, rather than going to the hospital wing," Hermione said.

Blithe shrugged. "Madam Pomfrey's nice, but you're Mummy."

* * *

Severus was dozing in her bed when she returned from walking Blithe to Gryffindor Tower. She curled next to him and started when he awoke enough to pull her arm around his waist. "That was a close one," he said. 

"Mmm, you heard all that?" she asked.

"Bits of it."

"You won't say anything to Blithe?"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"No, of course you wouldn't," she said, patting his hand sleepily.

He snorted, and she jumped, already half-asleep. "Strange; I was peripherally involved in _your _first period, too," he said.

"Mmm_what_?" she asked, her voice slurring.

"Poppy kept interrogating me about all the known side effects of Polyjuice and cross-species transformations, but your symptoms didn't fit anything to do with the potion. I finally gave up and asked her if it might not be first onset of menses instead, and off she went to check on you; I heard back later."

Hermione went perfectly still. "What? You _knew_?" Her voice rose alarmingly.

"I _guessed_." His voice took on a smug tone. "And I was _right_."

"You _knew _about my first period?"

"Oh, yes," he said, yawning.

"Wish I'd never heard that."

"Why? It didn't bother you that I knew about the period you had a few weeks ago."

"We were sleeping together _then_."

"We're sleeping together _now_."

She made an exasperated noise. "I meant that we _weren't _sleeping together when I had my _first _period."

"Of course we weren't; what sort of man do you think I am, anyway?"

"Oh, never mind. Go back to sleep." She rolled to her back and lay looking at the ceiling. She sighed. "When did this happen?"

He made an annoyed sound in his throat. "What's that?"

"When did I get this old?"

"About twenty years after I did."

She sniffled and giggled at the same time. "Somehow that doesn't make me feel better."

"I didn't realize that was expected."

"It would be nice."

"Very well." He cleared his throat. "Despite the fact that your daughter's uterus has begun to slough off its lining on a more or less monthly basis, you are nevertheless a vital, and, dare I say it, sexual being. Is _that _sufficient?"

"Yes. That's wonderful."

"You're easy to please, aren't you?"

"That's not what you said earlier; you _do _know you could have asked the bookseller for my wish list, don't you?"

"I was being _discreet_. Go to sleep," he said, rolling over and taking most of the blankets with him.

* * *

The following morning, Hermione, the twins, Jim-James and Wulfie caught a Portkey to a wood near Ottery St Catchpole. Harry had arranged all of the Portkey travel for the wedding through his contacts at the Ministry. While Hermione generally looked askance at Ministry-arranged special treatment, it was a relief after her late night to arrive at the Burrow within minutes rather than the hours the trip would have taken via the Express. 

It was somewhat warmer in Devonshire than it was in Scotland, and, despite the chill in the air, the weather was pleasant enough for a good walk.

Harry and Ginny met them at the other end of the Portkey and walked with them the short distance to the Burrow; Jim-James' younger siblings, Arthur and little Daisy, flew at their brother and cousins, chattering excitedly about Christmas and the wedding. Jim-James gave quick hugs to his parents before chasing Arthur ahead on the path.

Harry greeted Hermione, and turned his attention to casting Locomotor on their bags, sending them on to the house.

"How _are _you, Hermione?" Ginny asked, looking deeply into her eyes, as if watching for tears.

Hermione winced; she hated that question, asked with that nuance. No one had ever used that inflection with her before Ron died. "I'm fine, thanks, Ginny; how are you?"

"We've hit the ground running this morning; I hope you're ready to be put to work."

"Didn't George hire a caterer?"

"Oh, yes," Harry said. "But Molly insists on cooking all of her specialities as well, as a special treat to George."

Ginny snorted. "More like, she couldn't bear to cede her kitchen to the caterer."

"So we've been set to work mixing, chopping and running interference between Molly and the cook," Harry said.

"You'll probably wish you had gone to stay with your parents after all, Hermione," Ginny said cheerfully before looking aghast. "Oh, no, I'm so sorry; how is your father?"

"He's as well as could be expected; the doctors are keeping him comfortable," Hermione said.

"What a terrible year this has been," Ginny said, linking her arm through Hermione's.

"I wouldn't want to repeat it, that's for sure."

"Come on, enough of that," Harry said, taking Hermione's other arm. "It's Christmas, we've got a big family wedding tomorrow, and none of us has to be at work. I've never seen a better excuse for getting completely pissed in my life and we'd better not waste it."

"Harry, it isn't even noon yet!" Ginny exclaimed.

"I'll need to sneak off to Diagon Alley for a few things," Hermione said, lowering her voice and looking significantly toward her children as they walked up ahead. Blithe had just shoved Wulfie into the hedgerow, and he retaliated by putting her into a headlock and rubbing her scalp with his knuckles as she howled in outrage.

"Need any company?" Harry asked.

Ginny gave him a dirty look. "He'll do anything to get out of the kitchen, that one."

"I think I will need a hand; I'm getting some rather bulky items that don't take well to shrinking. Both of you are welcome, of course," Hermione said.

"Oh, no, Mum's got me too busy for that. The two of you should go. Harry's wanted to spend time with you for ages." Ginny smiled at her husband and sister-in-law.

"When does everyone arrive?" Hermione asked.

"Fred won't arrive until tomorrow morning since Fred's running things alone in George's absence, Angelina will be here later this evening to see Wulfie, Bill and Fleur and their kids will arrive in about an hour. George will be here tonight, with Portia and her family Portkeying in just before the wedding," Harry said.

"Any word from Percy?"

Ginny grimaced. "Same as ever. Sent an owl with his felicitations. Congratulated George on finally putting an end to 'those pesky rumours of his homosexuality'."

"He didn't, really?" Hermione laughed out loud. "Typical Percy, isn't it?"

"I swear it's a form letter he sends; I got one just like it before I married Ginny."

"Oh, you did not!" Ginny protested, giggling.

"Ron got one, too, didn't he, Hermione? I think Percy protests too much, if you know what I mean," Harry said, as Ginny flew at him and cuffed him on the bicep. He ducked low and scooped her up and over his shoulder; Ginny landed with an audible "_Ooof!"_

"Put me down, you reprobate!" Ginny shrieked, pounding on his back.

"Molly told me to help Hermione with the baggage," Harry said, winking at Hermione as he smacked his wife on the bottom. "I'm just hauling the baggage."

Ginny protested, alternating between laughing and gasping whenever Harry would hit an uneven patch in the road. The children, drawn by the noise, ran back to them and bounced gleefully around Harry and Ginny, while the teenagers, embarrassed by their elders' high spirits, doubled their speed, putting even more distance between them.

"Me, Daddy! Me up!" Daisy shrieked, raising her arms.

Harry jumped up and down, laughing at Ginny's resultant squeals, before bending and lowering her feet to the ground. He was breathing hard, but not as hard as most men his age would be.

"You'll pay for that later," Ginny said in a low but ardent voice, giving Harry a burning look.

"Promise?" he asked with a roguish grin before noticing Hermione's averted eyes and pink cheeks. He cleared his throat. "We'd best get moving, then."

Ginny nudged his hip with hers; it was a "this isn't over yet" sort of nonverbal communication.

"Daddy's in trouble," Daisy sang in the tattletale tone beloved by children the world over.

"Daddy _stays _in trouble, my Daisy," Harry said, scooping the toddler up and tossing her over his shoulder.

Daisy pounded on her father's back like Ginny had done, shrieking and squealing. "Down! Down!" she cried, but when Harry bent to let her down, she said, "No, Daddy! Bounce!" Dutifully, Harry bounced.

Ginny and Hermione exchanged amused looks; Harry was owned, body and soul, by his toddler daughter.

They rounded the last bend in the path, and the Burrow in all its mad magnificence came into view. They could see Molly in the front garden, exclaiming volubly over her newly-arrived grandchildren and hugging them tightly.

Arthur, long bored with what his little sister and parents were doing, ran ahead. "Oi, Gran's made biscuits!" he shouted behind him.

Still on Harry's shoulder, Daisy began to wiggle and protest in earnest. "Daddy, down. Gramma gots biccies."

"'_Has _biccies,' darling," Ginny corrected as Daisy scooted up the path on chubby legs.

"Hullo, Hermione," Molly called, waving.

"We're here, too, Mum," Ginny chided in a carrying voice as Hermione waved.

"You lot left ten minutes ago, didn't you? I haven't seen Hermione since August."

"She always did like you best, didn't she?" Ginny muttered from the corner of her mouth before grinning at her sister-in-law.

"What rot! I've been _persona non grata _with Molly before. It's Harry who's always been the blue-eyed-boy hereabouts," Hermione said.

"Hey, leave me out of it, you two," Harry said.

* * *

Bill and Fleur and their youngest son Denis arrived while Hermione and Harry were in Diagon Alley; their two older sons were working, one in Paris and the other in Mumbai, but they had sworn to both their mother and their grandmother that they would arrive on time for the wedding.

Hermione had long since stopped wondering where everyone would stay. A small city of tents was springing up around the property, each complete to stovepipe, lavatory and full kitchen. Every few minutes someone would rap sharply on a door or a window, and another member of the Weasleys' huge extended family or another of the family's seemingly endless stock of friends would walk into the house, to shouts of greeting and back-pounding embraces.

Even after years of friendship and then marriage to Ron, Hermione didn't know half of the people who were arriving and setting up camp. She must have met some of them at her own wedding or at Ron's funeral, but she couldn't begin to identify them. Ron had seemed to know everyone at this sort of family gathering, and it had always been easier to rely on his seemingly innate knowledge than to try to keep everyone straight herself. To be sure, a good number of them now seemed to be business associates of George's, but as to the rest… it was safest simply to paste a pleasant smile on her face, greet all newcomers with a cheery hello and try to puzzle out their identities later.

Amid the sea of unknown-yet-strangely-familiar faces, it was something of a shock finally to see a face she recognized beaming through the window. Angelina Johnson, Fred's on-again, off-again ex-wife and mother of Wulfie, had arrived.

"Angelina!" Hermione kissed her erstwhile sister-in-law on the cheek. "Look at you! I can't possibly be related to someone this chic."

"What, this old thing?" Angelina said, and tossed her hair, before laughing bawdily and putting her arm around Hermione's shoulders. "You're looking very smart yourself, kid." She spoke out of the corner of her mouth. "I'm pleased _you _consider me a relative; Molly's still pissed off at me."

"What, the divorce? That was years ago; I thought she was over all that."

"You hadn't heard? Fred and I are sort of shacked up again."

"How can you be _sort of _shacked up?"

"I still have my flat and he has his, but we generally spend our nights at one place or the other."

"Oh." It sounded rather like her arrangement (for lack of a better word) with Severus and she was hard-put to remain neutral. "How is that working for you?"

"It's better than living together full-time ever was. He's not destroying my things any longer, and I don't feel the need to pick up after him." Angelina ducked her head a little, only partly concealing her silly grin. "We can have sex and fun, and when he starts to get under my fingernails I send him to his place or return to my own."

"It sounds as if you've got it figured out, then," Hermione said, struggling to keep her own silly grin at bay. "I've hated to see you two struggle so."

"We're certainly having more fun this way. The only dark spot has been the, ah, _considered _opinion of our august mother-in-law. Molly had Kneazles when she found out."

"She was so upset when you divorced, I should think she'd be delighted. What more could she want?"

"Naturally, she wants remarriage, one household, preferably with additional grandchildren forthcoming." Angelina ticked the list off on manicured fingers and snorted. "Not bloody likely; Wulfie's going to be 18 this year, and my baby years are well behind me, thank God. Portia is keen enough to start churning them out, anyway; Molly will be ankle-deep in grandbabies within three years, I guarantee it."

"What's she like, this Portia?"

Angelina paused, chewing her lip. "She's… well, I'm going to sound like a snotty old bitch, but she's so _young_, Hermione. Thinks George shits rainbows. She actually walked him around at the Ministry Christmas party, gushing about the fact that 'these hands' created the thingummy that helped Harry defeat Lord Voldemort."

Hermione and Angelina exchanged one of those raised-eyebrows, bitten-lips sorts of looks.

"Oh, dear," Hermione said. "Still, she's young and in love; she'll get over it."

"Here's hoping." Angelina shook herself. "Oh, she's a _nice _girl. Just a bit too earnest for my taste; in small doses I wouldn't mind so much, but as she's marrying Fred's twin brother and business partner we're thrown together rather frequently."

Molly came into the sitting room from the kitchen, and her expression, already strained from proximity to Fleur, hardened visibly. "Oh, it's you. Hello, Angelina. You'd probably like to know that Wulfric is upstairs."

Angelina smiled sweetly at her mother-in-law. "Thanks, Molly; I'm just catching up with Hermione here."

"It's so wonderful, how weddings bring families together, isn't it," Molly said. "Pity we haven't had one in such a _long _time. We're so long overdue."

"Oh, it might not be too long before there's another one," Angelina said.

Molly's face brightened. "Oh, really?" she asked in a noticeably warmer tone than she had used before. "When might that be?"

"Well, Wulfie's close to leaving school, so he might well be next. Or Bill's Gabriel might surprise us all and make an honest woman of his, ah, _petite amie_."

Molly narrowed her eyes. "Those boys are far too young to get married just yet. There's _others _around here who should consider becoming _honest women_."

"I think we have _plenty _of honest women around here, don't you, Hermione?" Angelina turned a bright smile on Hermione.

"I, ah, I think I… I need a Firewhiskey," Hermione said, earning her a smirk from Angelina and an approving nod from Molly.

"In the cupboard over my grandmother's china, dear," Molly said, although Hermione knew perfectly well where it was kept. Molly looked at Angelina expectantly.

"I'll go see Wulfie, then, Molly. Hermione, I'll catch up with you in a bit."

* * *

By the next afternoon, dozens of small children ran shrieking around and through the house, and the teenagers escaped the chaos to enjoy the carnival atmosphere brewing outdoors among the tents.

Of course, that wasn't all that was brewing, which was an even bigger draw to the teenagers. A Wizarding wedding was one place where Hogwarts-age-and-up children could have all the butterbeer they wanted, not to mention the place where they most frequently had their first glasses of ale or even Firewhiskey.

Hermione remembered walking from tent to tent with Ron as a girl at Bill and Fleur's wedding, drinking glass after glass of whatever was offered them. Getting gloriously, giddily drunk and kissing him for the first time. And the second and third. It was pretty much a blur after that, until they woke up the next morning, cuddled together like puppies on a fat cushion in one of the aunties' tents. The auntie had cooed over them, how innocent and sweet they looked, and Ron so protective of her even as they slept. "Could there be another wedding in the works, love?" she had asked, cackling. Ron had blushed furiously, and Hermione had avoided his eyes, and they had sworn that they would never get married, ever, whoever heard of such a thing, honestly, they were only Seventh Years, after all.

Once the word "wedding" was said aloud, though, it seemed that their marriage was at the forefront of everyone's mind, and it had only compounded by the end of the war; the press loved a good story, and having not one, but _two_, adorable young couples made up of decorated war heroes was irresistible. Harry and Ginny succumbed almost immediately to the pressure to marry, and Ron and Hermione escaped the clamoring for the dreaded double wedding solely by virtue of Ron's new position with Gringotts and their subsequent escape to Egypt.

They had married a few years later in April, on a soggy, chilly day. The weather had been so miserable that Fred and George had threatened to serve Pepper-Up Potion in place of punch at the reception, and by the end of the day, Hermione had been ready to take them up on it. Still, once the requisite wedding was over, they could get back to being simply Ron and Hermione together, just with less racket from the in-laws.

George, it seemed, had learned from the debacle of Ron and Hermione's wedding. Winter weather wouldn't detract from his party one bit. The largest tent on the property was a huge purple marquee, under which the wedding and the reception would take place, and a fleet of hired wizards stood every few feet, casting heating charms to banish any cold draughts rude enough to sneak through the canvas walls.

(This wasn't an unqualified success; more than one menopausal witch drew her wand on the wizards, threatening to hex them if they didn't stop overheating her.)

The ceremony was mercifully short, the reception less so. It was a difficult thing, being in the bosom of Ron's family without him. Harry himself looked a bit lost, and from time to time he would look across the marquee, ostensibly to check on her. She wondered if he, too, would catch himself looking for Ron's copper-bright head in the crowd.

They had grown accustomed to missing Mr Weasley and Charlie after so many years, and Percy had never been _missed_, as such; he still visited only infrequently and Fred and George took the piss out of him mercilessly each time. But Ron's so-recent loss had created a glaring hole in the Weasley warp and weft.

As if to compensate, the men were even louder and more expansive than usual. Bill and Harry claimed Hermione for several dances, and Fred escorted her to the table for dinner, a beaming Angelina trailing behind; only George seemed to be exempt from Hermione Duty as he attended his bride.

While the kindness was appreciated, the attention left Hermione feeling rather like an elderly maiden aunt: a fussy, delicate person to be pampered and cosseted. She could imagine her pre-teen and teenaged nephews being under strict orders to ask Auntie Hermione for a dance, and all the groaning and eye-rolling that this would provoke.

Unbidden, an image blossomed in her thoughts of herself dancing with Severus. Clearly a fantasy, the image had much more skill at dancing than either could possibly exhibit in actual life. The image was also more fashionably—and daringly—dressed, and, strangest of all, _delighted _to put on an exhibition for the assemblage: as they danced, they enacted a blatant simulation of sex, full of tangled limbs, burning gazes and shared breaths. The shocked faces of the imagined assortment of guests and Weasleys nearly made her giggle out loud. Elderly maiden aunt, _ha!_

"What's funny?" Harry asked.

Startled from her reverie, she missed a step in their foxtrot. "Whoops! Ah, nothing."

"It's the dancing, isn't it? Ginny said I was doing better at it."

"No, it's not your dancing." She paused. "How long do you all intend to keep this up?"

"Keep what up?"

"The 'Dance Attendance on Hermione' scheme. It's very sweet, but—"

"Why would you think there's a scheme?"

"Well, you've all been very gallant."

Harry looked at her expectantly, waiting for further examples. When none was forthcoming, he grinned. "Yeah, that would point to some scheme or other, wouldn't it?"

"It would seem to," Hermione said, laughing at his sheepish expression.

* * *

As usual when in the midst of her sisters-in-law, Hermione felt the sting of being a sparrow in a flock of tropical birds. Angelina was tall and shapely, with regal features and _café-au-lait _skin, Fleur turned otherwise rational men into stammering idiots, and Ginny's fiery hair and athletic figure were undimmed by years and three children.

George's new wife, Portia, was a tiny, delicate young woman; with her golden hair and bright blue eyes she resembled nothing so much as a very expensive porcelain doll.

"Welcome to the 'Merry Wives of Weasley,' Portia," Hermione said, handing George's new wife a glass of champagne.

"Oh, thank you," she said breathlessly, sinking into a chair next to Hermione. "Who are you married to, again?"

"He—it's—Ron. I'm married to Ron," Hermione faltered.

"I thought Ron was the _dead _one," Portia said, her pretty brow wrinkling.

Ginny blanched, and Fleur shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Angelina shot Hermione a look of sympathy.

Hermione's smile grew strained. "He is."

Portia's face fell, and she blushed from her throat to her ears. "Ohh… I'm _so_—"

"Ah, Portia, it is confusing, but Angelina and 'ermione make up ze, ah… _auxiliary_, per'aps you say, of the wives," Fleur said quickly, smiling at her sisters-in-law to encourage them to help her smooth over Portia's stumble.

The effect was rather the opposite of what she had intended.

Angelina's eyes widened and she bristled visibly. "Auxiliary? As in 'second-class'?"

"Does that make my mother an Auxiliary Weasley because _she's_ a widow?" Ginny spat, her eyes flashing dangerously.

"Please don't—" Hermione began.

"Have another glass of champagne, Fleur; you can't stick your foot in your mouth if it's full of alcohol," Ginny said. "Surely you've figured that out after _so_ much practice."

"_I_ was trying to put Portia at ease, Ginevra, so it is natural zat _you_ would not recognise it."

"Really? She looks beautifully at ease _now_; well done there," Ginny said, sneering.

Three heads turned in Portia's direction; the bride looked as though she wanted nothing more than for the ground to open and swallow her whole.

"Oh, shit," Hermione said; no one heard her as Fleur launched into a part-English, part-French tirade about rude, ignorant, red-headed provincials. Beside her, Portia sniffled miserably into her lacy bridal handkerchief. "It's not your fault, Portia; they've been jabbing at each other for years."

"What's all the—" Bill said, apparently drawn by the increasingly electric atmosphere; his head swivelled take in both his wife and his sister. It would have been of no use for anyone else to try to claim responsibility for the spat. Fleur, normally pale, was positively glacial in her fury, and Ginny's ruffled hair and posture suggested nothing less than an enraged ginger cat about to attack.

Fleur crossed her arms and tossed her head becomingly, muttering loudly enough for onlookers to hear. "_Il y en a qui ne se prennent pas pour de la merde!_"

"Fleur, love, calm down. I'm sure Ginny didn't mean it—"

"The hell I _didn't! _She has the _nerve_—"

"_Cette__ petite prétentieuse—"_

As if on cue, the rest of the husbands turned up. George took in Portia's tears and miserable expression, and, shooting a furious glance at the other wives, ushered her away, protected within the circle of his arms. Harry backed Ginny up towards the house, trying to soothe her even as she gesticulated angrily towards Fleur. Fleur scowled (still becomingly) at Ginny as Bill tried to coax the story from her.

Fred and Angelina walked off, heads together, already gossiping about the controversy; of all the couples involved, they would have the most fun with it.

That's what she and Ron would have done, Hermione realized. They would have joked about it privately, comfortable within the cocoon of their long relationship.

The quick decampment of her sisters- and brothers-in-law had left her alone in her little corner of the marquee, and suddenly the idea of finding her bed had never been so appealing. She stood, pulling her cloak around her in preparation for venturing away from the warmth spells, and ducked through two flaps in the marquee fabric. This party could continue without her.

* * *

It was late morning the next day before there was much activity at the Burrow. Most seemed to be sleeping off the effects of too much Firewhiskey, too much food, too much dancing, or all of the above. Hermione had the kitchen to herself for an hour or two, and she relished every peaceful moment of it, drinking several cups of tea and reading the Daily Prophet.

Before long, however, there were stirrings both within and without the house. The kids were eager to get up and play, and breakfast must be got for them, however ill the parents felt at the prospect. Since her own children were old enough to find themselves a bowl of muesli or a plate of beans on toast when they got hungry, Hermione left the kitchen to those who really needed it.

Harry was in the sitting room, looking cross.

"Sorry, Harry; should I leave?" Hermione asked, taking an involuntary step back.

"Nothing new; just Jim-James and I starting in on it early." He grimaced. "I'm not an image-obsessed old wanker, am I?"

"Of course you're not old," she said, waiting a beat for him to shoot her an indignant look. "Well, you're not. You're almost a year younger than me, and I'm not the least bit old. Or so I keep reminding myself."

"I never thought that just being my son would be such a burden." He frowned, running a hand through his hair. "You try to give your children the things you needed as a child, good things like a loving family and security. And you still manage to fuck them up in entirely new ways."

"Jim-James is a good kid, and you're too hard on yourself. You haven't fucked your children up; look at Arthur," Hermione said, indicating the serious-looking redheaded boy, apparently engrossed in a book.

"Arthur's still in primary school, and he doesn't have the same disposition. He'll end up in Azkaban or as Minister of Magic, or both, that one; he's rather like Fred and George in that way. Does what he pleases, doesn't much care what anyone else says. Jim-James has always needed to prove himself."

Hermione gave him a significant look, and he shrugged. "Yeah, I know. But _I_ was content to live up to what I thought my father achieved. Jim-James considers himself a failure if he doesn't _surpass_ me."

"He's not competing against you, Harry."

"No, he's competing against me, _and_ his uncles, _and_ his cousins. _What _is he reading?" Harry mused, almost to himself. "Excuse me for a moment." He crossed the room. "What's that, Arthur?" he asked.

Arthur shut the book with a snap. "Nothing!"

"Give over, son," Harry said with the near-deadly seriousness he affected when one of his sons misbehaved.

Hermione approached the two; whatever else, Arthur's antics usually had the benefit of being entertaining, and she _was_ Arthur's aunt and godmother. She might need to intercede with his father on his behalf.

Hanging his head, Arthur gave his father the thick leather-bound book, with The Compleat Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle: 1950-2000 tooled on the cover. "What's wrong with this?" Harry asked, confused. "You're allowed—"

The book fell open to the title page, which read, The ALL-NEW Postures of Aretino: Fully Charmed for _Your _Pleasure.

Harry went white and red at the same time, and his lips twitched. Hermione looked at him in some alarm as he began to cough. She took the book from his hands and flipped the pages forward.

There, in glorious photorealistic colour, a very enthusiastic, well-endowed, naked woman magically rode her equally well-endowed male partner's crotch. Hermione watched in dawning horror as the moving illustration focussed closer and closer on the pertinent points of contact, before she slammed the book covers shut.

"Dad, it's Wulfie's! I was looking for something to read, and I found this, and I thought it was Martin Miggs, but it wasn't, and—"

"Outside," Harry said in a strangled voice. He pointed towards the door.

Arthur looked from his father to his aunt with frightened eyes, and bolted outside, barely pausing to grab his coat.

"Is he gone?" Harry growled.

Hermione nodded.

He made a low keening sound, followed by a pained cackle. "Oh, shit. That boy is going to be the death of me." He laughed in an unhinged manner until tears ran down his face, and Hermione couldn't stop herself joining in.

"Should we tell Fred that Wulfie's got a load of porn, cleverly disguised as children's literature?" Harry asked when he could summon the breath to speak again.

"Fred probably _gave_ it to him," Hermione said darkly.

"Yeah, you're right," Harry agreed with a grimace. "That's where Ron—" he began, and stopped, blushing even more vividly. He pulled off his glasses and wiped them on his jumper. "I should, ah, at least tell Wulfric to make sure the little ones can't get at it." He reached for the book.

"Not so fast, Harry," Hermione said, chuckling and holding the book behind her back. "I haven't seen this one before." She turned her back on him and began turning the pages.

"It wasn't in colour, the version Ron had; the same pictures, but they were just line drawings," Harry said from over her shoulder. He laughed, self-consciously scratching his jaw; his nails against his shaved face made bristly noises, which momentarily distracted her. Despite abundant evidence to the contrary, she was always a little surprised to find him an adult with children, a career and a need to shave regularly. "Neither of us had seen a naked woman before," Harry said. "We have a lot to thank Fred and George for, actually."

"It sounds as though Ginny and I do, as well," Hermione said, her voice artificially high.

He looked closely at her, as if inspecting her for something. "You know that it was always you for him, Hermione. Until the day he died, he thought he was the luckiest guy in the world. God, I miss him."

Hermione felt the familiar prickling in her eyes. "Me, too."

Ginny's voice called from the kitchen. "Harry, would you go outside and check on the little ones? James is supposed to be looking after them, but I don't see him anywhere."

"He's probably on his broom; sure, I'll go," Harry called. "Join me?" he asked Hermione, who nodded and, on afterthought, reduced the book, slipping it into her pocket for later study.

They put on their coats and went outside. The day was a pleasant one for winter; it was a bit overcast and there was a chill in the air, but there was little wind.

The older kids were, indeed, on their brooms, playing at Quidditch. Wulfie and Blithe bickered good-naturedly over the position of the makeshift goal hoops and foul zones.

Arthur saw his father come out the door and made himself scarce; Hermione saw him head toward the far side of the broom shed, to watch the game unobserved. She made a mental note to herself to talk to him later.

Daisy ran headlong into Hermione, hugging her knees tightly. "Auntie-miney, sing 'Daisy Daisy.'"

"Oh, not the 'Daisy' song again," Harry said, groaning. "She ran around the house for weeks after we saw you last, singing 'Daisy, Daisy, Daisy…' over and over." He bent to ruffle the toddler's caramel-coloured hair.

"No, Daddy, Auntie sing now." Daisy shrugged off her father's touch, and stuck her chin out determinedly.

Hermione swept up her youngest niece and settled her on her hip. "You want me to sing?" The child nodded as if her head were attached to a string. "You're going to have to help me. Ready?"

_Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do,_

_I'm half crazy all for the love of you,_

_It won't be a stylish marriage_

_I can't afford a carriage_

_But you'll look sweet_

_Upon the seat_

_Of a bicycle built for two!_

Daisy sang loudly and tonelessly, stumbling over the words in the middle, but shouting the words at the end of each line. For her part, Hermione was no born singer, but she could carry the tune to the toddler's standard, which was all that mattered.

Daisy held up her chubby little arms in triumph at the end of the song. She looked stonily at Harry, and stuck out her chin again. "See, Daddy. 'Daisy Daisy' _song_." She nodded decisively, and looked at Hermione. "Down," she said, in a voice that brooked no argument. Hermione put Daisy back on the ground, and she scampered off toward the Quidditch pitch.

"That looked like a challenge to me," Hermione said, giggling.

"You have no idea. I had this belief at one time that raising a girl would be easier than the boys."

Hermione hooted. "Even after watching Blithe all these years?"

"I chalked that up to her being a Weasley twin."

"More fool you."

"Don't I know it," Harry said sheepishly.

"It sounds as if you'd better be able to produce the 'Daisy Daisy' song the next time Her Ladyship requests it. Would you like me to write down the words?"

"That'd be helpful, thanks." He stuck his hands in his jeans pockets. "How is it, at Hogwarts? No trouble from anyone?"

"No," she said.

"Colleagues treating you well?" He was being elaborately casual, looking down the hedgerow.

"Oh, yes, they've all been wonderful. Welcomed me with open arms, you might say."

"Really?" he asked with an odd look on his face.

"Absolutely. They drink toasts to me each night, and kiss my arse each morning. It's a perfect situation."

"Hermione…"

"What do you want to know, Harry? You're dreadful at beating 'round the bush."

"Is Snape being decent to you?"

"Yes. He is being completely decent to me. He's even been something of a mentor."

"I had some worries, especially after Bill told me about his trip to Hogwarts."

"Severus was just looking out for me; he heard me yelling at Bill."

"_Severus_, is it?"

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "How else should I speak of a colleague? I call Minerva by her name, and you don't even bat an eye."

"You've mentioned him a few times today," he said. "I don't think anyone else noticed, but I did."

Hermione's face froze.

"When I add to that an interesting rumour that I heard a month or so ago, it makes me think that there's perhaps more going on than meets the eye." He smiled at her with one corner of his mouth, looking as if something were dragging down the other corner.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, blotting out the grey midday light and the field and the flying children. "Do you hate me? I can stand almost anything but that."

"It's true, then," he said shortly, and snorted a bitter laugh. He sighed heavily. "No, I don't hate you. It just makes me sad."

"Do you think it's too soon?" Icy tears rolled down her cheeks, and a sudden sharp breeze licked them away.

"Soon, what's soon? Twenty years would be too soon for my liking, but you can't live according to my timetable, can you, however much _I'd _like it. I've got the woman I love with me every day; I get to kiss her and hold her and argue with her." He ducked his head, but not before she saw his chin wobble. "I've tried to imagine what I'd do in your place, and I can't."

"You don't mind?" she asked, her voice choked off by the knot in her throat.

"Oh, I mind. I mind one hell of a lot."

"Then… I don't understand."

"I was hoping that, when it happened, it could be Krum, or someone like that. Someone I might be friends with, who'd fit in with the family," Harry said. He sniffed hard, and his green eyes were brighter than usual. "You won't be married to my best friend ever again."

Hermione sighed. "Oh, Harry, I won't be married to _anyone_ ever again."

"He won't take you away from us, then, will he?"

She shot him an offended look. "What makes you think he'd be _able_ to? And why would he want to, anyway? We don't live in each other's pockets. We see each other privately maybe… a few times a week."

She saw Harry's eyebrows rise, comically impressed. "A few times a week?" he asked. "I'd underestimated the old bas—_boy_. Does he use any special potions—"

She elbowed him in the belly. "I like my privacy and having my own space, and he… he doesn't like to be dependent on anyone."

"And you're _okay_ with that? You and Ron…"

"I know. Yes, this suits me."

"How does he feel about you?"

"He cares in his way," she said. "He doesn't say it, but then he rarely says what he really means. With Severus, I usually have to look at his actions and disregard what he says."

"That sounds like fun," Harry said dryly.

"He comforts me when I'm feeling overwhelmed or sad. He might do it by teasing me or pissing me off, but I'll feel better afterwards. He came to fetch me from Hogsmeade after I'd spent the day in hospital with my father. He cares, and he shows it; not everyone would see it, but I can, and it's... lovely."

Harry nodded, almost absently, and Hermione just had to smile at the absurdity of it all. "You're taking this rather well. I thought you hated Severus."

"We came to an understanding a few years ago, thanks to Minerva. I would never have sent Jim-James to Hogwarts if I thought Snape would treat him like… well, he's been good as his word. He's no tougher on my son than he is on anyone else, and that's good enough for me." He shook his head in puzzlement. "I understand that the kids rather enjoy his classes, but he always did like the Dark Arts."

"He's good at it. Remember sixth year Defence?"

Harry snorted again. "How could I forget it?"

"Look, Harry, I'm going to tell Molly before I go back to Hogwarts. I wouldn't want her to learn of it from anyone else," Hermione said. "I expect you'll want to tell Ginny… would you wait until after I've told Molly?"

"I'll wait until we're back in Spain; you'd be less likely to hear the shrieking." Hermione winced, and Harry patted her shoulder. "Why didn't he come here with you? If there's music to be faced, he should face it, too."

"It's not _his_ music to face. There's no declaration of everlasting commitment here. It's just me, telling my late husband's family that I've started seeing someone."

"Still. It's not very… decent of him." His expression was growing truculent, and she sighed inwardly.

"He did offer. Can you imagine me showing up with him at George's wedding, though? It would be so rude, as if I was trying to steal Portia's thunder. I don't want to rub anyone's nose in this. It's my business, and his, and I'm only telling those people who would be hurt by not knowing."

"Were you going to tell _me_, then? Or should I be grateful that I was able to make Sickles of your precious few Knuts?" His eyes narrowed, and she could see his fists clench.

"Of course I was going to tell you, Harry. Right after I told Molly. I wouldn't keep something like that from you."

After a moment he nodded, albeit a little tersely. "What about the twins? What are you going to tell them?"

She sighed. "I keep going back and forth on it. They have as much right to know as you or Molly, if not more. But they're kids, and it's a lot to saddle them with; what child wants to hear about his parent's love life?"

"If you don't tell them, they'll only hear about it in the worst possible way."

"They already have, sort of."

"_Sort of_?"

"Right after the term started. Peeves stirred up a racket when Severus and I left Minerva's office together, and a student heard it. He repeated it to Fabian, and Fabian decked him."

"_Our_ Fabian? Decked someone?" Harry whistled.

"And then Blithe joined in. Knocked the wind out of him."

"Well, that's entirely in character," Harry said, nodding.

"Severus said that Jim-James was the lone voice of reason amongst them."

Harry laughed out loud, and several heads turned their way. "That must have narked him off a good one. That's my boy."

* * *

A/N: 

Special thanks to foudebassan for French idiom and translations.

_"Il y en a qui ne se prennent pas pour de la merde!"_ Literally: "someone here doesn't think they're shit." Idiomatically: "someone here thinks they're God's gift to humankind."

"_Petite prétentieuse"_ - that little arrogant missy who thinks herself above me.

I first heard about The Postures of Aretino as a mention in shiv5468's very excellent PWP, "The Bookshop". She didn't invent it, as it was an erotic picture book lost to history, but I wouldn't have used it without her. My version is a modern "update" of the classic, designed to sell as many copies as possible (probably published in the US).

Is there anything worse than getting a book as a gift from someone who doesn't know your taste in reading? Severus doesn't have a whole lot of experience buying gifts for a lady-friend, bless him. It's just my little snark on the cliché of Severus and Hermione always giving each other the _perfect _gifts. Or if the gift is the _wrong _gift, it's _cute _à la "Gift of the Magi".

The Harry Potter Lexicon places Ottery St Catchpole in Devonshire, based on the location of the real-life town, Ottery St Mary, located on the Otter River.

Thanks to my readers, for being so enthusiastic about my quarterly offerings. I honestly mean for the updates to be more often than this, but…

Finally, thanks to my dear selened, for being my beta, my boot and my Britpicker extraordinaire. _Mwaahhh!_


	12. Chapter 12

Legal Disclaimer: I write HP fanfic with the clear understanding that JKR and her associates are the owners of everyone and everything within the covers of the Harry Potter books, and that I will never make a dime off any of it, and neither should you. It should go without saying that if you are not of legal age to read R-rated-and-up material, you are i not /i welcome to do so.

* * *

**Becoming**

Chapter Twelve

by snarkypants

"So," Hermione said, swinging her arms back and forth in agitation. "What's the best way to tell them, do you think?"

Harry squinted in the bright winter sunlight; he was looking towards the Quidditch players, but Hermione didn't think he saw them.

"As private a setting as you can manage, I'd say; the Burrow doesn't exactly fit the bill."

Hermione grimaced, nodding. "They're going to hate me. I know they will," she said.

" _I_ don't think so, but if you'd like I can join you; for moral support, if nothing else."

"Thanks, Harry. I _do_ love you, you know that?" she said, and pecked a kiss on his cheek. When Hermione shivered in the breeze, Harry put his arm around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder. "Mm, new aftershave? That's nice."

"You like it? Ginny picked it out for me."

"As always, she has excellent taste."

"Yeah, thank God. The only times I get barracked for being badly dressed are when I don't have her around to tell me what to wear."

"You two are doing well?"

"Yeah," he said, surprised. "Why do you ask?"

"You've always been… intense."

"You say that like it's a _bad_ thing." His wicked smile was utterly at odds with his still-boyish face, and gave Hermione the feeling that she was learning more than she really wanted about Harry's and Ginny's intimate life.

"You should see your face right now," Harry teased, laughing. "Like pickled beetroot, all purple and scrunched up." He poked her in the belly, and she squealed.

"I knew it. Get your hands off my mother, you—you _bastard_."

"What?" Harry asked, squinting in confusion.

"What?" Hermione asked, looking at her son.

Fabian was behind them, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. He must have just come from inside the house; a dropped biscuit lay forgotten at his feet. "You heard me," he said. "Get away from her."

Harry smiled in his most disarming way. "Fabian, son—"

Hermione winced, and Fabian drew his wand on Harry, his hand trembling.

" _Son_? You're not my father. I don't even think I want you for my _uncle_."

Harry blanched.

"Sweetheart, it's not what you think," Hermione pleaded.

"That's what people always say, but I _heard_ you. '_How are we going to tell them? They're going to hate us. I love you'_," he mocked in a harsh falsetto, glaring at them both. "How could you do this?"

"It's not _me_—" Harry protested, and stopped short, glancing at Hermione. He grimaced. "Sorry," he said, squeezing Hermione's shoulder. "Should I, uh, leave you to it then?" he asked.

"Thanks, that'll be _great_," Hermione said in a leaden voice.

Harry walked towards the makeshift Quidditch pitch, where the players sat idle on their brooms, watching the little drama play out before them. "Let's see some Quidditch," he said, clapping his hands; the kids hesitated before slowly resuming their game.

"_Moral support_…" Hermione muttered, steeling herself for Fabian's righteous indignation.

Fabian scowled ferociously at her, his grey eyes narrow and flashing with fury. "You lied to me," he said.

"No, I didn't," Hermione said. "There's nothing underhand with me and Harry."

"You're all over each other," Fabian shouted. "It's dis_gust_ing."

"We're not behaving any differently than we did when your father was alive," she said, and Fabian made a disgusted noise in his throat.

"_My father_ deserved better."

"Your father _knew_ better," Hermione hissed. "Harry's the best friend I've ever had, but there's never been anything more to it than friendship. Now put away your wand and we'll talk rationally."

"There's nothing to talk about," Fabian said, slipping his wand into his sleeve.

"Inside," Hermione said, pointing toward the Burrow. "Where's your sister?"

"Here," Blithe said in a subdued voice, carrying her broom. "What's going on?"

"Both of you, inside. Now."

Faced with two teenagers, one sulky and one wary, Hermione laid her cards on the table. "I've started seeing someone; it's a colleague at work, and it's _not_ your uncle Harry," she said in a tight voice. "That's what Harry and I were talking about."

Fabian crossed his arms over his chest and sat with a revolted expression, while Blithe had a quizzical look on her face. "Who is it?" she asked.

Hermione cleared her throat. "Does it matter?"

Fabian snorted, looking away.

Blithe was looking off to the side as she ran down a mental list of male Hogwarts staff. "Oh, no, it's Snape, isn't it?" she asked, looking up at Hermione, her eyes wide with horror.

"_Snape?"_ Fabian all but shrieked.

Hermione sighed. "Yes, it is."

"Oh… _Michael Davies_…" Blithe said, covering her face with her hands.

"We got into a _fight_ because of you. We lost _Hogsmeade_ privileges—" Fabian said.

"You did that on your own," Hermione said.

"I'll never be able to look him in the face again," Blithe said, stricken.

"Would you _shut up_ about Davies already?" Fabian snapped.

"Easy for you to say; _you're_ not in the same House with the wanker."

"_Language_, Blithe," Hermione said.

Fabian looked at her with narrowed eyes. "Oh, _now_ you're being the good mother," he said sneering.

"That is quite enough," said a quiet voice. Molly Weasley stood pale and trembling by the door to the kitchen.

"Oh, Molly," Hermione whispered, closing her eyes against a sudden welling of tears.

"Let me talk to them, dear," Molly said, still strangely subdued.

"Molly, I—" Hermione began, but Molly gave her a wan smile and waved her off.

"Go enjoy the sunshine; the Wireless said we're due for a chill tonight. Perhaps you could help the boys with building the bonfire," she said.

Dismissed, Hermione went back outside. She saw little Arthur, still sitting forlornly with his back to the broom shed, and made her way to sit on the ground next to him. "Hullo," she said, giving him a lopsided grin.

Arthur shrugged, looking sad. "Hi," he said.

"Looking forward to Father Christmas coming tonight?" she asked.

"I'm in trouble," he said, and he tried to set his jaw manfully, even as his blue eyes brightened with tears.

"Me, too," Hermione said, and put her arm around her nephew. "How about I ask Father Christmas to give you a break, all right?"

Arthur shrugged again, but the corner of his mouth turned upwards.

* * *

"I thought I might find you here," Molly said, standing just inside the gate to the family graveyard.

Hermione sat up abruptly, feeling absurdly as though she had been caught at some public indecency, rather than simply laying on the ground over Ron's grave.

"I'm sorry; I imagine this looks rather odd," she said, dusting herself off.

"Only if you don't have someone down here," Molly said. "After Arthur died, I spent lots of evenings here." Almost as an afterthought, she added, "In the summer, usually, though. Aren't you freezing?"

"No; I've got on my good woollens, and a strong warmth charm."

"You should have a dose of Pepper-Up when you get back to the house, just in case."

"I will." She stood next to her mother-in-law. "How are the kids? Do they hate me?"

"They're being teenagers, I'm afraid; I think Fabian's mostly embarrassed right now, and too proud to admit it. Blithe is all caught up in the drama. They'll settle down, though."

Hermione sighed. "You were the first person I was going to tell, you know. And then Harry guessed, and Fabian overheard us talking. I'm so sorry."

"Well, I never thought you'd be single forever; you're a young woman yet, and it's only natural you'd want a companion."

"You're still young, too, Molly," Hermione said, teasing only slightly.

Molly laughed. "Young, ha! I'm far too set in my ways to put up with some man's foolishness; I'd gladly tolerate my Arthur's foolishness, but someone else's? No."

"I'd gladly tolerate Ron's foolishness, too," Hermione said.

"I know you'll always love my boy. He knows it, too."

"I do miss him so much."

"It's strange, isn't it, to sleep next to a man for years, and then he's gone. I would lie out here all night and talk to Arthur." She chuckled. "Ginny and the boys thought I was pining myself into the ground, when all I wanted was to be as close to him as possible."

"It's morbid, but it's the last bit I have of him."

"Not the last, dear. You have his children. But you can't lie on top of them and talk all night, not without ending up in St. Mungo's." Molly patted her hand.

Hermione giggled, and tried to stifle the sound with her gloved hand.

"What is it?" Molly asked.

Hermione only shook her head and giggled harder; the more she tried to suppress her laughter, the more irresistibly it burst out, slipping through her fingers. Molly began to laugh herself, even though she didn't know why.

"Are you going to tell me?" Molly asked between giggles.

"Ron… always liked me on top…" she said, and shouted with laughter.

Molly blushed as furiously as only a redhead can, and her face creased with the effort of suppressing the great belly laugh that was about to burst out.

They wobbled in place like happy drunks, leaning against each other and laughing so hard it hurt.

"Do you want to know the really funny part?" Molly asked, wiping her eyes on her coat sleeve.

"W-what's that?" Hermione asked.

"His father liked that, too." Molly's blue eyes twinkled with mirth.

* * *

After their giggles and snorts had subsided, Hermione sat on the stone bench inside the little graveyard.

Molly sat next to her and put her arm around her waist. "When you and Severus get married, I'll treat him no differently than I would any other son- or daughter-in-law. Never worry on that score."

Hermione winced. "That's not going to happen, Molly."

"Not yet, of course, but eventually—"

"We're not getting married, Molly."

"Oh, everyone says that, but—"

"No, we're not getting married. Ever."

Molly's jaw dropped in disbelief. "You're just going to be his _mistress_? Her_mi_one—"

"He's _my_—" She searched in vain for an appropriate word. "My—_my_… lover, too. It's not—" she began, and stopped at the look of outrage on her mother-in-law's face.

"What about the children?"

"What about them?" Hermione asked.

"Do you think they would be _proud_ to have their mother known as a scarlet woman?"

"Oh, Molly, _really_. A _scarlet_ woman?" Molly Weasley seemed to be the only person on Earth who still used that phrase, and Hermione was simultaneously as amused and annoyed by it as she had been as a schoolgirl.

Molly rose to her feet, pacing around the graveyard. "It's bad enough with Fred and Angelina, but at least they were _married_ once, and he's Wulfie's father. But you—"

"—But I _what_?"

"—you are determined to bring shame to his memory—"

"How can I possibly bring shame to Ron's memory?"

"Can you imagine what they will say about Ron if you refuse to get married again?"

"Perhaps they'll say that we were so happy that I can't imagine being that lucky again."

Molly crossed her arms over her chest. "No. They'll say that he was a bad husband and that _you're_ glad to be rid of him."

Hermione stood, matching Molly's posture. "If 'they' think that then 'they're' idiots and I don't care what 'they' think."

Molly sighed and put her head in her hands. "I would never have believed it of you, Hermione. It's such a shame."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Molly, truly I am. But I'm not going to change my mind." Hermione walked around her mother-in-law and out of the graveyard.

* * *

Hermione sat at the table in Angelina and Fred's tent, hunched miserably over her arms much like Blithe had been on their last night at Hogwarts.

"Severus Snape," Angelina mused, giving a low whistle. "That was unexpected."

"Imagine how it was for me," Hermione said.

"You _really_ like him, then. This isn't just a… a fling?"

"I like him. I don't know about anything more."

Angelina smiled. "Of course you don't. It's all new, isn't it?"

"I should never have said anything."

"Yeah, why did you?"

"I didn't want to lie to her. I don't have any intention of getting married again, and Severus has no intention of getting married ever."

Angelina nodded, her mouth pursed in a way that made Hermione bristle and ask, "What?" defensively.

"It's just… you and Ron spent years telling people you would never get married. Until you did, of course."

"Your point?" Hermione snapped.

"Easy there," Angelina said. "The more you tell people that you're not going to get married, the more they're just going to expect it."

"Anyone, or just me?"

Angelina bit her lip. "Well… there _is_ a history there." She took in Hermione's horrified expression with a rueful smile. "Oh, our mother-in-law. Of course, no one interprets _her_ refusal to remarry as a sign that Arthur was anything less than a perfect husband."

"_She_ hasn't got anyone on the side," Hermione said in a peevish voice.

"That we know of," Angelina said.

"Oh, stop," Hermione said, but she giggled anyway.

* * *

As a rule, Severus Snape did not sing.

However, a very select few people knew that when absorbed in a pleasurable task he might chant lyrics under his breath.

It was of course a coincidence that most of those select few people were now dead.

Flipping through a battered, dog-eared logbook, he made a few marks with the stubby pencil that he kept with the logbook. _"'Cause the high heel he used to be has been ground down, and he listens for the footsteps that would follow him around…"_ He reached for an Ian Allen ABC book (British Rail Steam Locomotives), and thumbed through, in search of a particular page—

There was a knock at his door, and Severus sighed, throwing his pencil to the desk. He kept office hours during the winter hols, but that didn't mean he wanted to be disturbed.

"Enter!" he shouted.

Harry Potter walked in, and Severus' pleasant evening took a sharp turn for the worse. He cast a quick incantation over the items on his desk, obscuring them from view.

"Mr Potter. To what do I owe this honour?"

Harry met his gaze easily. "I'm here to ask your intentions."

Severus smirked. "I _intend_ to eat dinner, after which I _intend_ to—"

"Just… _stop_. You know why I'm here."

"I'd _like_ to know why you feel my _intentions_ are any of your business."

"Hermione's welfare is my business."

Severus didn't as much as blink. "Oh?"

"She's had huge rows with both Molly and Fabian."

Severus sighed in disgust. "Sit down, Potter," he said after a moment, indicating the armchair in front of the desk. He sat down heavily in his desk chair and withdrew a glass and a bottle of Firewhiskey from a desk drawer, pausing briefly with a shuttered look at Harry.

A second glass joined the first on the desk, and Severus kicked the drawer shut. He looked a question at Harry, gesturing with the bottle, and Harry nodded. Severus poured two fingers of whiskey into each glass, and pushed one glass towards Harry's side of the desk.

Severus took a drink from his glass and smacked his lips in appreciation. "I'm sure it's not the quality you're used to, Potter, but some of us have to _work_ for a living."

"Fine. Insult me and get it over with, but your Firewhiskey's fine."

Severus gave him a mocking salute with his glass. "Thank you for your approval."

_Don't let him get at you_, Harry thought, keeping his gaze level and his expression neutral. _He's gagging for it_.

After a few minutes, in which the two men did nothing more than glare at each other and sip at their whiskey, Severus set down his glass with a decisive thump.

"Let me guess; the row had something to do with me."

"Got it in one. Surprisingly enough, no one objects to you in particular, so there's no call for you to feel persecuted; not that it'll stop you—"

"Shut up, Potter."

Harry smirked into his drink. "Believe it or not, we do have one thing in common: we both care about Hermione."

"Who _says_ I care?"

" _She_ does." Harry narrowed his eyes, staring Severus down. _Go ahead, you bastard. Deny it. Deny_ her.

Severus was silent.

"Perhaps you're too much of a _coward_ to admit—"

Snape's eyes flashed dangerously at the hated word, and Harry let his words trail to a loaded silence.

"What is it that you expect of me, Potter?

"If her father weren't dying, I'd probably feel differently about you tw— _this_. I mean, I don't _get_ it, but—in any case. I want her well looked after when it happens."

Severus sighed loudly. "You should know by now that I don't make guarantees."

"If it were up to you alone, would you—?"

Severus looked at him long and hard; Harry tried not to flinch

"If it is within my power to do so, I will," he said finally.

"That's all I need to know," Harry said, and rose to leave. "Huh. That's interesting." When Severus didn't rise to his bait, he shrugged and continued, still moving towards the door. "You haven't referred to Hermione at all, not by name, not by 'her' or 'she'. If you were anyone else, I'd take it as contempt."

"Take it however you like; just take it elsewhere," Snape said, looking quite bored.

"I will," Harry said, bowing his head in a mocking salutation.

"Farewell, Potter," Severus said, and with a wave of his wand he made the door close loudly, barking Harry's heels.

He cast the charm that would allow his books to reappear upon his desk, and reached for the periodical British Ferroequinology Today. He paged through the journal, looking for the article he'd been saving as an after-dinner treat. He chanted idly whilst tapping a finger against the page. _"He's got a mind like a sewer and a heart like a fridge, he stands to be insulted and he pays for the privilege…"_

After a few distracted minutes of reading, however, he glanced up to look at the fire burning merrily in the hearth. He shook his head in disgust, and muttered to himself, _"Love is always scarpering or cowering or fawning, you drink yourself insensitive and hate yourself in the morning…"_

He was probably going to have to make some sort of gesture, and not of the two-fingered variety.

Damn it all to hell.

* * *

A/N: The song Severus _isn't_ singing to himself is "Man Out of Time" by Elvis Costello (1982). One of my favorites, and I think Severus would like it, too, having been an angry young man at about the same time as Costello.

_Ferroequinology_ is a word coined and used by trainspotters to describe their hobby: "ferro" and "equine" equalling "iron horse;" the title of the publication was made up by me. I think that trainspotting makes about as much sense in the Wizarding World as in the Muggle one, and it's perhaps the least romantic hobby that Severus could have.

Special thanks to my beta, selened, who always gives excellent advice and asks insightful questions. If something isn't working, I can always count on her to ask me the right questions that will get me going again. Thanks, Selene, and I hope you're feeling better very soon!


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